Here There Be Wolves
by Raven'sDesk221b
Summary: Jo Watson had made the study of Lycanthropy her life's work, so the fact that her flatmate occasionally turned into an extremely large, remarkably tactile, wolf didn't bother her in the slightest; the severed head in the fridge was far more concerning anyway. Unfortunately most people weren't nearly so open minded. Fem!John and Werewolf AU
1. Chapter 1

"So, do you have a potential?" Jo asked, just trying to make conversation. Sherlock looked startled, as if he hadn't expected her to know that he was lycan; she would normally have been offended by that, but she decided to let it go, just this once, and only because he was distracted by the serial suicides/murders.

"Potential, no; not really my area," Sherlock answered, his gaze flicking between her and the window as if he wasn't really sure whether he wanted to allow the conversation to continue. Jo paused for a moment, wondering if it would be too rude if she were to ask her next question; in the end she decided that social niceties probably didn't count for much with Holmes.

"A companion then?"

After another brief moment she hastily added, "Which is fine."

"I know it's fine," he replied harshly, half glaring at her. After a few seconds he continued, sounding much less defensive. "But no, I don't have a companion." Jo nodded and mumbled something awkward that was meant to show camaraderie. Holmes tried to gently let her down from a come on that she had never made. She shook her head and said something about it all being fine, eager to just get out of that conversation. Later she would be impressed, and honestly a bit flattered, that he had even tried to be gentle.

That was the last, and only, conversation that the two ever had about Sherlock's lycanthropy. Their lives quickly fell into a routine, and the only really obvious sign that Sherlock was even a lycan was that he disappeared for three days around the full moon. Of course there were the more subtle indications, such as how he would be more outwardly agitated nearing the full moon and more subdued around the new moon, or how there were certain people (like Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade) who he obviously considered to be Pack. Jo had been surprised when she found out that the strange Alpha she had met in the warehouse was Sherlock's brother, but she quickly got over it. It wasn't unheard of for two siblings to be alphas, and Sherlock was most definitely an Alpha - queer as could be - but an Alpha nonetheless. Even Mrs. Hudson, a fairly domineering alpha in her own right, never felt the need to discuss the fact that Jo was human. In fact, the only person who seemed to be bothered by the situation was Sally Donovan, and she kept any comments to vague hinting that Jo found reasonably easy to ignore. It wasn't until she had been living with Sherlock for a little over three months that she realized that there was a fairly important conversation that they had never had.

It was the new moon, three and a half months after Jo had moved in with Holmes, and Jo was forced to recognize that there really were some questions that she should have asked. She had just gotten off work at the surgery, which was made all the more awkward since she and Sam had broken up, and was happy to be getting home. The door was unlocked and Sherlock's coat and scarf were hanging on their pegs in the hallway, so Jo half expected to find her flatmate in the process of dissecting something and/or blowing something up, possibly the same something. What she did not expect to find was a large black wolf with scraggly, almost curly, fur pacing back and forth in her sitting room. An exceptionally large wolf who, upon noticing her arrival, was very excited to see her, bounding across the room with his tail wagging. He came to a stop right in front of her, sitting down and practically smiling up at her. Standing he had come up to her waist and sitting his head was almost at chest level. Jo tensed, mostly sure that the wolf was, in fact, Sherlock, but because she had never actually seen him in wolf form before, she couldn't be entirely sure. Sensing her wariness the wolf (most likely Sherlock) laid down so that he didn't seem so imposing.

Jo sighed. "Sherlock Holmes, that had better be you." He huffed and gave her 'the look,' and Jo could practically hear the implied "obviously."

She rolled her eyes. "Don't give me that look. There is no behavioral way to tell the difference between a Natural Sire and any other lycan." Sherlock huffed again but it sounded more amused than annoyed. He jumped to his feet and began pushing her towards the couch with his head.

She pushed back. "Hold on; I've been coughed on and sneezed at all day and I need to take a shower before I do anything else. You decide whether you want to go out or stay in for dinner." Sherlock huffed but let her pass.

When Jo got out of the shower half an hour later Sherlock was still in his wolf form pacing the sitting room; she was actually fairly impressed by his agility considering the size of the room and the size of him. She let him herd her towards the couch and didn't put up a fuss when he laid down on her feet. She wasn't really concerned by his increased physicality since Sherlock had been more physically affectionate since the pool fiasco with Moriarty, and she really wasn't surprised that this had transferred over to his wolf form; lycans tended to me more tactile in their wolf form anyway. A few minutes later Mrs. Hudson came popped in, as she usually did in the evenings, and Sherlock jumped up so that he could nudge her towards the couch, being mindful of her bad hip. Once the landlady was seated next to Jo, he yipped at them, obviously intending for them to stay there, before bounding towards his own bedroom.

"What was all that about?" Mrs. Hudson asked, sounding more amused than anything else.

Jo shrugged. "I never know what's going on with him; I don't think it's a case though. He'll probably tell us eventually."

"Probably," she agreed, nodding her head sagely.

"He gave me a bit of a scare though," the younger woman said with a smile. "I didn't know that he was a Natural Sire, and it was a bit shocking to come home to a wolf of his size pacing my sitting room."

Mrs. Hudson chuckled. "Sherlock does tend to forget the effect he has on people."

"It's not that I really care either way," Jo added. "It was just a very unexpected end to my day. I feel like this is something I should have found out about before now."

She sighed. "I wouldn't worry too much about it. Sherlock does try so hard to ignore what he is. I knew him for years before I ever saw his wolf."

"I suppose it's not rational enough for him," she replied, only half joking; Mrs. Hudson laughed anyway. Sherlock chose that moment to reappear, changed back into human form and dressed in his usual black suit and his favorite purple shirt.

"What are you two so pleased about?" He asked, narrowing his eyes at the women on the couch.

Jo smiled cheekily up at him and answered simply. "You."

The detective rolled his eyes but ignored her answer, changing the subject entirely. "Come on, get your coats; there's a man who works at a lovely little French restaurant who owes me a favor.

Both stood and Mrs. Hudson tittered, nervously fingering the hem of her blouse. "I hadn't planned on going out; shouldn't I change first?" Jo was about to reassure her but was cut off by Sherlock.

"You look lovely Mrs. Hudson," he said softly. He hesitated for a moment before leaning in and kissing her cheek. "Happy birthday." He straightened up and cleared his throat. "My research tells me that the appropriate response to birthdays is a dinner out, and cake."

Mrs. Hudson smiled, blushing a little. "Thank you dear, but it's really unnecessary. I don't need any special treatment."

"Of course you do," he answered imperiously, gently ushering her out the door with a hand on her back. Jo followed the pair amusedly; she always enjoyed watching the way that the supposedly sociopathic detective interacted with his landlady. Mrs. Hudson was easy to overlook. Most saw her as the doddering old landlady who Sherlock took advantage of. Her wolf wasn't any more imposing: small with dingy gray fur, she looked as if she had gone to battle with the world and lost. Few saw her for what she was: an alpha with a spine of steel with a bite that was far worse than her bark. Even fewer could see that Sherlock would rather burn London than abandon her in her time of need.

They were out on the sidewalk waiting for the cab that Sherlock had called when Jo spoke up. "Mrs. Hudson, you should have told me it was your birthday; I would have gotten you something."

"Oh I didn't want a fuss," she replied. "When you get to be my age birthdays aren't really that big of a deal."

Jo rolled her eyes. "Birthdays are always important, especially when you get to be your age. I'll have to take you shopping this weekend."

"Don't expect me to join you on any such excursions, ever," Sherlock interjected, smirking.

"Well you're no fun to shop with anyway," Jo replied, bumping shoulders with him to show that she didn't mean anything by it; Sherlock smiled down at her. For all that Sherlock tried to pretend that nothing anybody said effected him, it wasn't entirely true; he also had a hard time recognizing the difference between something said in jest and something malicious, so Jo always made a point to let him know when she was kidding.

The cab arrived before too long and Sherlock even deemed the occasion special enough for him to be courteous enough to open doors and pull out chairs. The food was delicious and they didn't end up getting home until late. The next day Jo sat down to write up the event for her blog. After reading through the finished post, she decided to delete the description of her homecoming, deciding that it was no one else's business. Sherlock had always gone to great lengths to keep that aspect of himself out of the public eye, and she really had no interest in sharing it; she had a separate, private journal for things like that. In the end her attempts to protect him really didn't make much of a difference.

Jo and Mrs. Hudson never got their shopping trip, mostly because the day after her birthday Sherlock got a string of cases that kept them busy almost non-stop for two weeks. The last case was that of a spree killer who kept Sherlock going continuously for three days straight; Jo had barely managed to catch a few hours of sleep on Lestrade's office floor and the detective hadn't even managed that. They finally managed to wrap up the case, stopping the murderer before he had the chance to finish off his fourth victim. After their traditional late night post-case Chinese and a cab ride that Sherlock barely managed to stay conscious for, they both barely made it to their respective bedrooms before crashing.

Jo wasn't really surprised when she was up before Sherlock; he always made up for lost sleep right after a case. She took her shower and puttered around quietly, doing things that wouldn't make enough noise to waken her flatmate, who tended to be a light sleeper even when he was exhausted. Mrs. Hudson usually helped by intercepting any visitors at the door before they had a chance to make it up to 221b, so Jo was fairly surprised when there was a very loud knock on the door before noon. She was even more surprised when she opened the door and found a very familiar face.

Mrs. Hudson was standing behind him, looking distraught. "I tried to stop him, but he just wouldn't listen."

Jo gave her a small smile. "Don't worry about it Mrs. Hudson; I'll take care of it. You can go back downstairs now." Mrs. Hudson nodded and left, although not before she gave the man another wary once over.

Jo sighed and turned her attention back to her visitor. "Nick, what are you doing here?"

"What am I doing here?" He bellowed, his voice breaking the quiet of the flat. "I should be asking you that question!"

"Keep your voice down," she hissed. "You're going to wake up my flatmate."

"Good," he replied, not bothering to lower his voice. "It's almost ten! What kind of lazy bastard sleeps this late on a Thursday!"

She glared at him. "He just got off a case and hasn't slept in three days; I think he's entitled to sleep however late he wants. And it's none of your damn business anyway, so keep your voice down."

"It's not him I'm here to see anyway," he answered. He sounded just as angry as before, but his voice was quieter.

She sighed. "Well what are you here for?"

Nick's face began to turn red. "You know damn well what I'm here about!"

"I can assure you that I don't," Jo replied, her own voice hardening. "And since I am still very tired and quickly losing what little patience I have left, I suggest you get to the point."

"The POINT? This is the point!" He yelled, pulling a newspaper out out of his back pocket and slapped it against her chest.

She grabbed it from him just as she heard Sherlock's baritone come from the back of the flat. "Jo! Is that a client?" His voice was thick with sleep and he didn't sound like he had gotten up yet; Jo was pretty sure that he would probably go back to sleep if she didn't give him any reason to get up.

She closed her eyes and tried to keep her voice light. "No, don't worry about it. I'll take care of it." He mumbled something unintelligible and after a moment of silence she figured that he had gone back to sleep. She unfolded the paper and looked at the front page. It was from five days before and there was a picture of her and Sherlock at the end of one of the cases they had finished that week; the headline read Amateur Lycan Detective Helps Police." Jo sighed, suddenly understanding everything made sense - not that she was going to admit that.

"So? Sherlock works with Scotland Yard and I help him on cases; you knew that before. Why are you banging on my door on a Thursday morning?"

"You bloody know why!" He yelled, making no attempt to avoid yelling. "Now tell me if you knew about this!"

"Knew about what?" She asked, knowing that she was pushing her luck.

"Did you know that your flatmate's a fucking flea ridden dog!?" He screamed, banging his fist against the door jam.

Jo squared her shoulders. "This is my home and you will watch your language."

"Why? Because you don't want me to offend your pet," he spat angrily.

She glared at him. "Get out. We're done here."

He glared back. "I'm not leaving here without you."

She rolled her eyes. "Yes, you are. You can't make me go with you."

"Watch me," Nick answered, taking a step towards her.

"Is everything alright?" Sherlock interrupted, managing to sound both sleepy and slightly menacing. Jo hadn't heard him get up and she quickly turned around to face him, surprised at how close he was to her. He had obviously just gotten out of bed. He was only wearing a pair a ratty sleep pants, and his metal identification tags glinted against his bare chest. His hair was all mussed and he was still trying to shake out the cobwebs; as brilliant as he normally was, and as much as he tried to pretend that he was above it all, he was a normal as anyone else when he first woke up in the morning. He looked at Jo, trying to gauge the situation, and she gave him what she hoped was a reassuring smile. Unfortunately the quiet moment was broken by Nick taking another step forward.

"Stay the hell away from my sister you filthy mutt," he yelled, jabbing a finger at Sherlock. Sherlock took a step back, not really knowing what else to do, but a low growl did escape his throat.

Jo stepped in between them. "Nick, knock it off. I don't know what you're trying to do here, but you're done now. Leave."

Nick shook his head. "No, I'm not leaving you here with this thing. Who knows what he'll do to you; I'll bet that you don't even have a good lock on your bedroom door, not that that'll stop him when he decides to take what he wants." Jo felt sick at what he was not so subtly hinting at and she couldn't bring herself to look and see at what Sherlock's reaction to the accusation was.

Nick had always been big, with broad shoulders and large muscles. He was an inch shorter that Sherlock, although Sherlock looked so scrawny that it was hard to tell, but that still meant that he was over a head taller than Jo. That had never stopped Jo, though, and she pushed on his chest, making him take a step back.

"Get out, Nick," she said, her voice low and dangerous. "I'm not going to ask you again."

He nodded and she stepped back again, thinking that it was over. Instead of leaving, however, Nick lunged towards Sherlock. Sherlock braced for the impact, but it never came. Jo had caught hold of her brother's arm and twisted it up behind his back in a way that had to be painful and forced him down onto his knees. She pushed harder, making him grunt in pain.

"Nicholas, listen very carefully, and I do know that it's hard for you, but try," she said in an almost conversational tone. "You do not have the right to come into our home and insult us. I am a grown woman and I can make my own decisions; you do not have a say in anything I do. You are not welcome here. Now I'm going to let you up and then you are going to leave. Do you understand me?"

Nick turned his head so that he could sneer up at her. "What? You're going to pick this dog over your own family?"

"Apparently," she replied in complete deadpan. "Now, do. You. Understand?" Nick nodded again and she let him up.

He waited until he was out of the door before turning and giving his parting blow. "You always were a fucking queer anyway." Jo just shrugged and closed the door, locking it for good measure. She hesitated for a few moments before turning around to face Sherlock, who had gone even paler than usual.

"Jo, I would never do…" He trailed off, unable to bring himself to finish the sentence.

She nodded, stepping towards him. "I know, of course I know that. I'm really sorry about Nick; he never was the sharpest tool in the shed, and I can't say that he's gotten any better with age. There's a reason we've never gotten along."

"How did he know about me?" He asked, frowning. "Did you put something on your blog?"

She shook her head. "No, I wouldn't do that. It was in the paper a few days ago. Lycan Registration is a matter of public record; some reporter was probably just doing research and found it."

"Ah, of course," he answered. Straitening his posture and finally seeming to regain his composure.

Jo smiled. "Now, you need a shower because I can smell you from here. You go do that, and I'll get breakfast ready."

"You don't have to do that, I don't want to inconvenience you," he said, offering her one of his sincere but barely there smiles.

She rolled her eyes. "You have never had a problem with inconveniencing me. And even if you did, you love my breakfasts and would take it anyway."

Sherlock's smile grew. "Probably. Although it's a good thing I like them because you can't cook anything else."

"Go. You reek." She answered, resisting the urge to laugh. Sherlock gave her a mock salute before heading upstairs to the bathroom. Jo did laugh at that as she went to the kitchen, wary of any experiments Sherlock had done on the food without telling her.

Sherlock didn't take as long to shower as Jo took to cook, which was expected, and so he puttered around a bit, checking in on the experiments he had all but abandoned for the case. When he finished he fixed them both coffee and sat down at the table; Jo dished up the food and sat across from him. The silence only continued for another minute or two.

"I didn't know you had a brother," Sherlock said quietly. "I just thought it was you and Harry."

Jo shrugged. "We don't really get on. We've never really been a close family. Harry and I have always been closer; she's a drunk, but at least she's not a total lunatic."

He nodded but still looked uncomfortable. "I never wanted to come between you and your family."

"Don't worry about it," she replied lightly. "I've had issues with my family long before this. I never really figured out how to deal with them, so I left home at sixteen, stayed with a friend's family until I could graduate early, and came to London for Uni; I was out of med school by twenty-five. This was just the latest on a long list of reasons why I won't be going home for Christmas."

He gave her another almost smile. "Out of med school by twenty five? Something tells me you are more clever than you let on."

Jo coughed awkwardly and ducked her head to try and hide her blush. "What you see is what you get with me. I'm not anything special."

Sherlock hummed but changed the subject. "Tomorrow night is the full moon."

"I suppose it is," she answered. "It seems like this month was really short."

He nodded. "We were so busy this past week that I forgot to call ahead and book a room for the full moon, so would you mind if I stayed here for the change?"

"Sherlock," she said, resisting the urge to roll her eyes, "you live here too. I'm not going to tell you when you and and can't be home."

He cleared his throat. "I just don't want to make you uncomfortable."

This time she really did roll her eyes. "Then don't leave eyeballs in the microwave or heads in the fridge. You staying home for your change isn't really going to make me uncomfortable. In fact, it might be kind of nice to know where you are; I've always wondered where you disappeared to for three days every month." Sherlock smiled but didn't answer her implicit question. Instead, he reached across the table and snagged one of the sausages off Jo's plate.

"Hey," she said, frowning at him. But she she smiled back after grabbing a piece of his toast to even them out. Sherlock chuckled a bit at the domesticity of the routine and Jo couldn't help but join in.


	2. Chapter 2

Jo was not happy. Sherlock had interrupted her date, again, for this case, and at this point she wasn't sure if she was more upset with Sherlock for doing it or with herself for letting him get away with it; she ignored the part of her that said that the guy had been boring anyway. The fact remained that instead of going to the play she had tickets for, she was standing in the rain at a filthy crime scene down by the river. She wasn't dressed for this type of activity and her light jacket didn't really do much to keep her warm. The wet and the chill made her shoulder ache even more than it had been before; she had been kept up for the past week with nightmares, which had also had the effect of making her shoulder act up. Matters weren't made any better by the fact that the victims were all veterans.

Sherlock had been working on the case for over a week. Originally he had said that it was too simplistic for her to find it interesting and that the only reason he had even taken it was that his mind was rotting with boredom. It hadn't seemed too simplistic to her, but she had had a full schedule at the clinic and wasn't really available anyway. A part of her said that the only reason Sherlock had involved her now was his apparently almost pathological aversion to her dating; her more rational side knew that Sherlock had been getting increasingly frustrated and that the cause of death had been difficult to determine. And so she shoved her hands in her pockets and did her beast to keep her brooding to herself, knowing that most of her bad mood had nothing to do with Sherlock or her ruined date.

After about twenty minutes Sherlock came up to her, looking frustrated. "There's nothing more I can get here. I'm going to go back to Lestrade's office and keep looking at the files; you can come if you want, but you don't have to."

Jo snorted. "It's not like I have anything better to do."

"Jo," he said, looking pained. "I'm really sorry about your date. I wouldn't have called if I didn't need you."

She sighed. "I know. Ignore me; I'm just in a mood. I mean you probably did me a favor; the play was going to be rubbish anyway." She flashed him a smile that she knew looked insincere; Sherlock frowned but didn't say anything.

Sherlock's mood didn't improve once they got to Scotland Yard. He had almost entirely taken over Lestrade's office and was pacing back and forth in front along the length of the room. He had turned the entire wall into a concept web with names and dates and pictures. Jo sat on the couch and watched, not sure what else to do. Sherlock continued to get more and more agitated until JO knew that she had to stop him before he resulted to trying to pull out his own hair.

"Hey, come here," she said, holding her hand out to him. He glared at her for the intrusion into his thoughts, but after a moment he did as he was told. As soon as he was within arms reach, Jo grabbed a hold of his wrist and pulled him down next to her on the couch.

"Alright, talk," she commanded. "You know you think better when you do it out loud, so talk. Tell me what's going on here."

Sherlock sighed. "I'm close, I can feel it, but there's something I'm missing. I'm so close I can feel it, but I can't see what it is."

She nodded. "So tell me about the murders." She still had her hand wrapped around his wrist, and as he began to speak she rubbed soothing circles with her thumb on the underside of his wrist, right above his veins.

"The murders were all very violent - each of the five victims were stabbed between ten and twenty times each - but there was no sign of forced entry. That implies that they knew their attacker, but other than the fact that they all were either military or ex-military, none of the victims knew the same people. It could be someone they all met in the military, but they were in different branches and served in different places; the first victim was Army but never left Britain, the second was RAMC in Iraq, third was Army in Afghanistan, the fourth was Air Force who was stationed in North Africa, and the fifth was Navy on a ship in the Persian Gulf. All of them were either recently discharged or home on leave. They were targeted when they were alone, but these were all well trained men in good shape, it would have taken a lot to overpower them. But there were relatively few defensive wounds, which again points to someone that they were close to. Which brings us back to the fact that there was no one they all knew, let alone someone they all trusted enough to let close enough to do this. I mean, these were all men who wouldn't be likely to trust easily; four of the five were in active war zones, and the first was stationed in Ireland, on the boarder with Northern Ireland and was dealing with IRA. The only way this makes sense is if it was someone they knew and trusted, but there's no way that they all knew and trusted the same person. It's circular, and I can't see the way out of the loop.

"He's building up to something, I know he is. He's leaving messages to someone, but I don't know who, and I don't know what it means. This guy's smart, brilliant, and he has a plan; I just don't know what to do. If I don't catch him, someone else will die, and soon. As much as I enjoy a good murder, I do actually want to stop them. And I don't know if I can stop this one."

"Hey, calm down" Jo said soothingly once he had finished. "I know you'll figure it out. Maybe you just need a fresh pair of eyes. I know the military better than you; maybe I'll see a connection that's not as obvious to a civilian." She finally let go of his wrist as she got up and walked to the board.

A few minutes later she spoke again, her eyes not leaving the wall. "The fifth victim, Adam Walsh, what branch did you say he was in again?"

"Navy," he answered, still sounding frustrated.

She hummed. "What about earlier? He was RAMC wasn't he?" Sherlock jumped up and looked through the files.

"Yes, actually, he switched five years ago," he said, sounding slightly awed. "How did you know that?"

She pointed at the victim's picture. "His tattoo. "In Arduis Fidelis." It's the RAMC motto; there's not many reasons you would get that tattoo." They fell silent for a few moments before Jo spoke again. "Rick Newman, victim number one, before he was transferred to Ireland he spent a long period of time in the same place, right?"

"Yeah, three years in Newcastle upon Tyne," he answered after checking the files again.

She snorted. "His records have been falsified. He was at an Army Medical base in Northumberland. Look at the tattoo on his chest: these flowers are Wolfsbane; the wolf head in the middle and the snake underneath make it very unique. This is the unofficial emblem for a secret RAMC research facility that specializes in Lycan research. You have to have a pretty high security clearance to even know about it, and most of the personnel are medical; he was probably working security. The government doesn't really want to admit that they're doing experiments on Lycans, so they keep the base secret and keep it out of records so that no one without the proper clearance will ask questions after people are transferred out or retire."

Sherlock's eyebrows shot up. "If it's so secret then how do you know about it?"

"How do you think I know about it, genius?" She asked, smirking a bit. "Now Army boy Vince Harris, he was in one of the L97 units, wasn't he?"

There was some more rustling paper. "Yes, but there was no way you could have known that."

She shrugged. "Call it a gut feeling. The L97 Units are experimental all Lycan bases."

"But Harris was human," he interrupted, sounding confused and just a bit lost. Jo took a brief moment to revel in the fact that for once he was the one struggling to keep up.

She nodded. "There's always a few humans, doctors, CO's, and properly trained personnel to try and keep the peace during the full moon. Harris was most likely one of the MP's, and probably also had training as an orderly in the on-base hospital. There are three of these bases total, two in Afghanistan and one in Iraq. The bases are almost completely autonomous and have their own medical units and hospitals. They have limited interactions with other units, and are highly successful. There are different theories about why they're so successful, the most prominent theory is that lycans operate better when they don't have to control their natural antagonistic urges towards humans, but we're not here to discuss bullshit theories about lycan behavior. The point is that these bases are a concept child of the RAMC, and while they are under Army control, most of the officers are medical."

Just as she finished the door opened and Lestrade came in. "I got coffee. Have there been any epiphanies since I left?"

"Jo's made a connection between four of the five victims," Sherlock answered, and Jo didn't think that it was too vain for her to think that she wasn't imagining the bit of pride she heard in his voice. "They all had strong RAMC ties."

Lestrade nodded. "Alright; what about the fifth? Anything in his background?"

"Not that I can see," Sherlock answered, handing the file to Jo. She took it from him but didn't look away from the wall.

She sighed. "Nick Williams doesn't fit, other than that he's recently been discharged. But there's more to the pattern than that… Oh."

"Oh what?" Lestrade asked, stepping closer to the wall.

"Do you see this?" She said, pointing at a piece of paper found near the body at the Williams crime scene. "It's an invitation for the RAMC Veteran's Banquet, but that's strictly for RAMC vets; I mean Rick Newman and Vince Harris wouldn't have even gotten an invite. Did he live alone?"

Lestrade shook his head. "No, he lived with his partner, Matthew Phillips. Poor guy, he was only gone for half an hour to pick up dinner. He's only been back in London for a year; he said that they were really looking forward to finally living in the same place."

"Let me guess, Phillips was RAMC," Jo said, her shoulders slumping.

Lestrade quickly went through his notes before nodding. "Yeah, he was."

She nodded. "So what if Phillips was the intended victim, not Williams."

"That doesn't make sense," Sherlock said, frowning. "The murderer is very precise; he wouldn't just mix up his victims, especially if he's chosen them all for a reason."

"I don't know," Jo said quietly. "You said yourself that this was a message for someone. Maybe they're the person that matters, not the victims."

He nodded. "Alright, but that still doesn't explain how the attacker got close enough to kill them. Why did they let him into their homes? Who would they all have known?"

Jo thought for a moment before speaking up. "Maybe it doesn't have to be someone that they actually knew."

"What do you mean?" He asked, whipping his head around to look at her.

"Well," she continued, trying to ignore his staring, "they're all military, so we've been assuming that they wouldn't just let anyone in. But what if someone showed up in uniform. I mean it would make sense; the victims were all chosen because of their military connection, so it would only be logical that their attacker is also military; that would explain how he was able to get to their records, particularly Newman's. They wouldn't have had to ever met him before; all he would have needed were their records and his uniform. I mean if someone showed up at my door in a uniform saying that they had to talk to me about my pension, I'd let them in and probably make them tea without a second thought."

Lestrade whistled through his teeth. "That's brilliant Jo, really." She shrugged and didn't answer him. Sherlock hummed thoughtfully before turning back to the wall; they all fell silent again.

Jo sighed a few minutes later. "I am starving; someone, and I'm not naming any names, pulled me away from my dinner before I got the chance to eat the appetizer I had ordered. I'll go pick us up something. Who wants what?"

"Indian sounds good to me," Lestrade said. "And it's my turn to buy, so if nobody has any complaints I'll go pick it up. I think I've got everybody's order down by now."

"Thanks," she answered with a smile. "Oh, and get…"

"Extra naan," Lestrade finished for her as he left the room.

Jo took her coffee and walked across the room. She leaned against Lestrade's desk and watched Sherlock. He was staring at the wall, trying to absorb the information that Jo had given him into what he already knew. He held his coffee in his hand, but it was almost like he had forgotten about it.

"Sherlock," she said fondly, "you actually have to drink your coffee. It's caffeine and sugar: it won't slow you down." The only sign he gave that he had heard her was that he took a drink from his cup. A few minutes later he came and leaned against the desk next to her.

He cleared his throat. "You were quite brilliant there. It was, impressive."

She shrugged. "Not really. I just got lucky."

He shook his head. "You shouldn't underestimate yourself; that was truly brilliant. I don't know anyone else who could have done what you did." Jo smiled but didn't say anything. He bumped shoulders with her. "I don't just keep you around for your superb tea making skills you know, and god knows it's not your cooking abilities either."

Jo smirked. "I always thought it was my gun you liked."

"Well, I've always thought that you handle your weapon with remarkable skill." He said with a wink.

There was a long pause before Jo burst out laughing. "Sherlock Holmes resorting to innuendo; this case must be frying your hard drive."

"I told you that I'm lost without my blogger," he said quietly.

She sighed. "You also told me that this case was boring and simplistic, which it obviously isn't."

He shrugged. "You've not been sleeping and your shoulder hurts, which means that something has been bothering you for at least two weeks. I didn't want to make things worse by dragging you into this."

"So you were trying to protect me," she said slowly, crossing her arms across her chest.

"I suppose I was," he answered quietly. "Although it's really self preservation. You tend to get grumpy when your shoulder hurts and I'm convinced that you're going to throw something heavy at my head one of these days."

Jo smiled but kept her eyes focused on the floor. "I don't need you to protect me."

"I know," he replied. "That doesn't mean I don't want to." She hummed and they fell silent, each lost in their own thoughts. Several minutes later Sherlock gasped, startling them both out of their reverie.

"What?" Jo asked, looking over at him.

"You said that Newman and Harris wouldn't have received invitations for the RAMC Banquet." He pushed himself off the desk and walked back to the wall, abandoning his coffee in the process.

She nodded, joining him at the other end of the room. "Yeah, they wouldn't have been eligible since they were never enlisted in the Corps.

"Then why were there invitations for it at their houses?" He asked, his body beginning to thrum with excitement. "Look at these pictures. At each crime scene there's an invitation placed next to the body. I can't believe I missed this!"

"Missed what?" Lestrade asked, having just entered with two bags of delicious smelling Indian food.

"Apparently," Jo said once it became clear that Sherlock wasn't going to answer, "the killer left an invitation to the upcoming RAMC Banquet next to each of the bodies."

"That's significant," Lestrade said, going to put the food on his desk.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Of course it's significant! This is his message! He's building up to something, trying to get someone's attention. And he's definitely going to be there; he has to be! I'm going to need an invitation; I suppose I could call Mycroft, but he's bound to demand something insufferable in return…"

He was already pulling out he mobile by the time Jo interrupted his stream of consciousness. "That's not necessary. I have a invitation, and it includes a plus one. It's a bit late to RSVP, but I'm sure I can manage to pull some strings."

Sherlock pocketed his phone and narrowed his eyes at her. "I didn't know you got an invitation. Why didn't you tell me?"

She rolled her eyes. "Because it wasn't relevant until just now."

"What do you mean it wasn't relevant?" He asked, sounding progressively agitated. "When did you get the invitation?"

Jo sighed. "I'm not required to tell you when I get mail." Her voice came out harsher than she had intended and she felt a bit guilty when she saw a flicker of hurt cross her friend's face.

"I know," he said quietly. "But you usually tell me when you make plans; that is what friends do, isn't it?" The sincere (and by now she was fully capable of telling the difference with Sherlock) insecurity underlying his question made all the the useless fight over this pointless argument drain out of her.

She sighed again, this time scrubbing her hand over her face. "Yes, that is what friends do. And if I had ever intended on going, then I would have told you, but since I never had any intention to attend I didn't see the point in mentioning it. Now, I have to call in a favor to get us both added to the list on such short notice." Sherlock opened his mouth to ask some further question, but she held up one finger to silence him as she quickly found the contact in her mobile that she was looking for. There were only a few rings before a cheerfully feminine voice picked up.

Sherlock watched his friend shift into a more military stance, but unlike when they were in danger or she was under emotional strain, it wasn't defensive or tense, it was almost easy, as if she was finally comfortable in her skin again. A small smile crossed her face. "Hello, this is Captain Josephine Watson, I'm calling to talk to the General."

There was a slight pause and then she chuckled. "Yes, that Watson. I know it's late, but could you possibly put me through to him; it's important."

The person on the other end said something and Jo nodded. "Right of course; I completely understand. But maybe you can help me." A shorter pause and then she continued. "The thing is, I have an invitation for the RAMC Banquet tomorrow night, but I hadn't planned on going. I just found out that a friend of mine just got back from from deployment and he's going to be there with his girl, whom I've been dying to meet for ages. So I was wondering if the General could get me a last minute RSVP for me and my plus one."

"Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Do you need me to spell that for you?" Another pause and Jo's smile slowly widened. "Oh you are brilliant Angelina. Thank you so much. I'll be to sure send you something nice next week, and you can tell the General that I'll include a bottle of that Scotch he likes so much as a reward for picking such an amazing assistant." She rang off and slipped her phone back into her pocket and let her posture slip almost immediately back into a more civilian posture, her smile fading in the process; it looked like she was folding back in on herself, and Sherlock was almost indescribably sad for a moment because of that.

He cleared his throat. "Hold on, you have the phone number to a general's office just in case you need it?" Jo shrugged but before she could answer she was interrupted by Lestrade, who had remained almost miraculously silent throughout Jo and Sherlock's pseudo argument, recognizing that it was something intensely private (Jo was convinced that Lestrade should be sainted for all that he put up with and understood, and if no one else agreed with her then she would just have to do it herself one day).

"Wait just a second," Lestrade said, waiving a finger at Jo. "You got him to shut up long enough for you to make a phone call, just by holding up a finger?"

Jo nodded, grinning at him. "Yeah."

"How the hell did you manage to get him to do that?" He asked, sounding half incredulous and half awed. "I've been trying for five years, and I've barely been able to get him to stop taking the mobile out of my hand!"

"Have you tried throwing things at him?" She asked, smirking. "I find that it works quite well as a deterrent."

Sherlock rolled his eyes before Lestrade could continue that particular conversation and get any more ideas. "Anyway, back to the case. Is that it? We can both go to the banquet tomorrow night?"

Jo sighed, her smile quickly fading again, but she nodded. "Yes, we've been added to the guest list. I suppose I need to air out my uniform; I'm glad I didn't put it in storage. You do have a tux, right?"

"Of course I have a tux," he answered, narrowly avoiding rolling his eyes, recognizing that this was somehow making Jo very uncomfortable.

She nodded curtly. "Good. And you best behave yourself; I won't have you embarrassing me."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "Of course; I'm not a child Jo." She nodded and averted her eyes, recognizing that she had hurt him, but was unwilling to apologize for it. She went over to Lestrade's desk and began sorting food out for her and Sherlock. She could see her friend analyzing her, but she ignored him, not wanting to say another hurtful thing that she didn't mean. The knowledge of what she had just agreed to do was fully sinking in and she could feel the knot of panic and dread settling in her stomach. And if her hand shook when she handed a carton of food to the detective, then no one mentioned it.


	3. Chapter 3

Jo's hands were shaking so badly as she tried to get dressed that it took her nearly five minutes to do up all of her buttons. Because she was one of very few women involved in her field, she had been asked to wear the men's uniform ever since leaving basic training. She had never particularly liked the dress uniform - the trousers were shapeless and uncomfortable, the waistcoat was constricting, and the jacket certainly hadn't been designed to accommodate breasts - and it felt even worse now; the added weight of her commendations on her chest was suffocating. When she was finally dressed she looked at her reflection in the full length mirror on the back of her door and bit back a sigh, straitening her spine and squaring her shoulders until she was the picture of military posture. She had pulled her shoulder length blond hair into a tight bun situated low enough so as not to interfere with her hat (she remembered when she had been forced to shave it all off, but quickly forced those memories away), her uniform was all straight, crisp lines and full colors, and her shoes had been fastidiously shined until she could practically see her own reflection in them. She looked like the picture perfect soldier; it was something that she had never wanted to see again. After taking a few more moments to make a futile attempt to calm her nerves, she picked up her hat and the long black woolen trench coat that she never wore and went downstairs.

Sherlock was already in the sitting room, looking impeccable in his tux, which didn't surprise Jo in the slightest. He was fiddling with his bow tie in the mirror in a way that would have belied nervousness in anyone else, but probably just meant that the detective was annoyed at having to actually wear a tie. She draped her coat over the back of her chair and bit back yet another sigh; there were not enough words in the English language to express how much she didn't want to do this, but at the same time she knew that she would go through with it because it was what Sherlock needed. That knowledge, of course, brought up the question of when exactly had she started caring so much about what Sherlock needed, but that, she decided resolutely, was a question for another day, or possibly never. Sherlock stopped fidgeting with his tie and turned to face her, freezing immediately. His eyes raked up at down, taking in ever little detail. Jo came to attention under his scrutiny and schooled her expression into one of practiced, deliberate blankness.

Finally Sherlock's eyes rested on her face and he cleared his throat. "You look very, um, nice. That is, the uniform looks good on you."

Jo felt her cheeks begin to warm but she ruthlessly chased the sensation away and instead gave a pathetic little half smile. "Thank you, but there's no need to try and spare my feelings. This thing was never designed to be particularly flattering."

"I wasn't trying to spare your feelings," he answered almost too quickly. "I just thought you should know that you look nice." This time Jo did blush.

"Um, you too," she offered awkwardly. "I mean, you look nice too. I like your tie." She mentally kicked herself for lamely complimenting the man's tie, but her friend broke out into a genuine smile.

"Thank you; I hate the bloody things, but they do look nice." Almost as an afterthought he added. "Mrs. Hudson did it for me; I've never been able to figure them out." As soon as the words left his lips he ducking his head sheepishly, obviously embarrassed that he, as a grown man, didn't know how to tie his own tie, and even more embarrassed by the fact that he had just admitted it out loud.

She smiled again and it was slightly less miserable. "Well I think it looks nice."

He cleared his throat again and clenched his fist to avoid pulling at the fabric again. "I think we should be going now; we don't want to be late. I have the invitation; is there anything else we'll need?" Jo shook her head and shrugged into her coat before placing her hat firmly on her head. Sherlock nodded curtly and led the way downstairs to the waiting cab. Thankfully, Mrs. Hudson was out for the evening, so they didn't have to stop and chat.

The event was at the Dukes Hotel in downtown London, and the cab ride there was completely silent. Sherlock seemed to recognize that his friend didn't want to speak and kept his mouth shut, even though he did keep watching her out of the corner of his eye. For her part, Jo spent the entire ride staring out of the window and trying to keep her breathing normal and even. If she had been paying more attention she would have noticed the silence and thought it awkward, but as it was she was too preoccupied to notice and it remained unbroken. They arrived at the hotel and Jo had to present both the invitation and her military id before they were allowed in. They relinquished their coats and Jo's hat to the coat check before making their way to the banquet hall. There was still about half an hour before dinner, and everyone was supposed to be mingling. Sherlock found mingling hateful at the best of times and it was even worse without Jo's easy company and running commentary about the other guests. Jo was obviously uncomfortable and she made no effort to interact with the other guests or Sherlock; Sherlock thought that if her back got any straighter she was going to break something. They had been there for about ten minutes when a man, a general if Sherlock's memory of which decorations corresponded to which rank proved correct, came up to them with a smile. Jo saluted, the motion more natural than the detective had ever imagined possible, but she waited until the salute was returned before slightly relaxing her posture into something still military but more comfortable looking.

"Josephine Watson," he opened with a grin, "I can honestly say that I never thought I would see the day when you voluntarily came to one of these things."

Jo returned his smile with a small chuckle. "Well that certainly makes two of us. Seriously though, thank you for helping me out with this."

He waived her off. "Don't mention it; it was my pleasure. Although I would be lying if I said I wasn't going to take this opportunity to try and convince you to reenlist. I can even offer you a promotion. You could be a Colonel within a year and a half." Sherlock's heart stuttered in his chest at the thought of Jo leaving Baker Street in order to return to the army. Thankfully his panic didn't last very long because Jo quickly rolled her eyes.

"I'm perfectly happy where I am, thanks." The way she said it sounded like this wasn't the first time they had had this particular conversation.

The general laughed. "Ah, well, I suppose I'll have to settle for you introducing me to your date." Sherlock prepared himself for the inevitable violent refusal of the term date, but it never came. Instead Jo smiled and put her hand on his arm and pulled him into the conversation.

"How rude of me; I should have introduced you two sooner," she said, smiling that polite, friendly smile that seemed to make people trust her almost instantly. "General Leads, this is my friend Sherlock Holmes."

The two men shook hands and the general grinned. "It certainly is a pleasure to meet you Mr. Holmes. I've known Watson for almost ten years now and this is the first time that I've met anyone she knows out side of the service."

"The pleasure is all mine," Sherlock replied with a smile that Jo thought looked almost sincere. "This is the first time Jo has introduced me to anyone she knew in the army."

Leads laughed. "That doesn't surprise me. Watson has always had a remarkable aptitude for compartmentalizing her life; it's one of the things that makes her one of the best scientists I've ever seen." There was a slight pause where Jo was simultaneously blushing and trying to pretend that she wasn't, and then Leads sighed. "Well, I should be going now. I brought the wife with me, and I don't think that anyone wants a repeat of that particular introduction. Stay in touch Watson; just because you've been discharged doesn't mean you get to drop of the face of the planet."

"Of course," Jo answered, smiling. "I'll be sure to stay in touch."

"Scientist?" Sherlock asked after the other man had left, a frown creasing his brow. "I thought you were a doctor."

Jo rolled her eyes. "Of course I'm a doctor. But the best doctors are also scientists; that's how you know you're doing your job well."

"And your aversion to the general's wife?" He asked, his voice almost teasing.

She shrugged. "I met Mrs. Leads at one of these things about six years ago. She was convinced that I was sleeping with her husband and after a few stiff drinks tried to pull my hair out. It was great fun all around." He hummed and they fell silent again, both of them scanning the room. A few minutes later Jo felt someone touch her waist; she stiffened and prepared to defend herself, but she relaxed when she heard a low voice whisper in her ear.

"Imagine seeing you here, Captain." She could hear the smile in his voice and couldn't help but grin in return. Sherlock had tensed when the stranger arrived, but when Sherlock saw his friend turn and hug the interloper, he decided that the newcomer most likely wasn't too much of a threat.

Jo slapped the man lightly on the shoulder. "Jackson, you bastard; you scared me half to death. Can't you even say hello like a normal person?"

"Normal is boring," Jackson replied, his hands still on Jo's waist.

She rolled her eyes. "Of course it is. I didn't even know you were back. You should have called."

Jackson ducked his head. "I got back about a month ago. I know I should of called; I just didn't know how you were doing. I didn't want to make things worse for you. How are you doing?"

"Good," Jo answered with a smile. "I'm doing very good."

He grinned. "I'm glad. Now, tell me about this fine young man on your arm." Jo took hold of Sherlock's elbow and pulled him closer.

"Jackson Swift, this is my partner Sherlock Holmes," she said, sounding ridiculously happy and almost proud of herself.

His eyebrows shot up. "Partners? Really?" He looked Sherlock up and down. "I can see that. He's a bit skinny, but I'll bet he keeps you plenty warm at night." Sherlock turned beet red but Jo just laughed.

"Oh God," she said, trying to contain herself. "I wish it were that simple. Sherlock and I aren't shagging, Jack. We're friends, flatmates, colleagues, and pretty much everything else, but we're not shagging. Hence, partner not boyfriend." By the time she finished speaking, her tone had shifted from laughing to someone explaining something to a student.

"Right, sorry," Jack said, looking a bit sheepish. "I didn't mean to offend."

"Yeah right," she said, rolling her eyes. "You always mean to offend me. Now, where's that girl of yours. I've been dying to meet her for ages. Or are you going to tell me that you just decided not to bring her; because then I'd have to seriously revisit the theory that she doesn't actually exist."

"No, she's here," he said, sounding slightly desperate. "She just stepped out for a moment; she should be back any minute now." Jo hummed, pretending to be skeptical. Sherlock had never seen Jo show this side of herself with anyone other than him, and he wasn't entirely sure of how he felt about seeing the easy camaraderie she obviously shared with Jackson; part of him was happy to see her loosening up, but the other part was ridiculously jealous that anybody else got to see it.

Moments later Jackson's entire face lit up. "Oh look, there she is." He waived at someone and soon the trio was joined by a tall beautiful red head.

Jackson was grinning from ear to ear as he introduced them. "Isabella, this is my old captain Jo Watson, and her partner Sherlock Holmes." Sherlock nodded in acknowledgment and tried to look friendly, if only for Jo's sake.

Jo smiled wide and shook the woman's proffered hand. "It's so nice to meet you; Jack here wouldn't shut up about you. I swear I thought about shooting him a couple of times just to get him to shut up."

Isabella laughed. "That sounds like Jack. I've heard a bit about you too. The magnificent Three Continents Watson." She lowered her voice conspiratorially, but she was still smiling. "To be honest, I might be a bit jealous if I didn't know just how devoted my Jack is." Jo just chuckled at that, not offering an answer. Jackson intervened, obviously trying to avoid the women swapping any embarrassing stories about him.

"Well Jo," he said, still smiling, "I think we'll stop bothering you and leave you and your parter to keep doing whatever it is you were doing."

"Alright," she answered cheerfully. "I'll see you around. Keep in touch." The last bit almost sounded like an order, and from what Sherlock knew of Jo (which was actually quite a lot) that is exactly what it was. Jackson seemed to know it too.

"I promise," he whispered as he kissed her cheek goodbye before linking arms with his girlfriend and walking away. Jo seemed to deflate once they were gone, but she quickly rallied and snapped back into her uncomfortably military posture. Wanting to make her feel better, Sherlock opted to start a conversation.

"It's surprising that you and Jackson get along so well," he said, sounding mildly interested, "considering that you're both such strong Alphas." He had half expected her to argue that she couldn't be an Alpha because she was human, but the argument never came.

"Why?" She asked, not looking at him. "You're an Alpha and I get on just fine with you."

He nodded, conceding the point. "Yes, but I'm queer."

She sighed. "And what makes you think that Jack isn't?"

"It's obvious," he replied, rolling his eyes. "His body language is too domineering for him to be queer."

"Don't be ridiculous," Jo snapped, her voice harsher than Sherlock had ever heard it. "That's complete and utter bullshit, and I expect you to keep such abhorrently judgmental stereotypes to yourself in the future!" Sherlock snapped his mouth shut, completely shocked by the vehemence of Jo's reply. Of course he had known that she was an Alpha - it was completely obvious, especially in the way she interacted with Mycroft - but this was the first time she had really asserted it. Oh she had let it seep through in her "negotiations" with Sherlock about which parts of the kitchen could be used to house experiments/body parts, and she had definitely made it perfectly clear that Mycroft was not going to be allowed to intimidate her, but this was something completely different. This was an Alpha making her dominance completely known and ensuring that she would not be questioned or undermined. If she had actually been able to turn into a wolf Sherlock would have been more than slightly concerned about his throat, but as it was there were other parts of him that were beginning to get very interested in what was going on; thankfully, though, Sherlock's fear, both of Jo and of discovery, outweighed that interest.

He ducked his head in a sign reminiscent of submission and refused to make eye contact. "Sorry. I didn't mean to upset you."

She sighed and deflated again, this time leaning towards him so that her arm brushed against his. "I'm sorry too. I shouldn't have overreacted like that. This whole thing is putting me on edge; I don't like being here."

"I thought you would have wanted to come for sentimental reasons," he said, not thinking about how Jo might react.

Thankfully she just snorted. "I think you'll find that there is very little about the army that I am sentimental about." Sherlock hummed and let the conversation drop, not sure what else he could say without offending Jo.

Finally the social hour was over and the pair began to make their way to the adjoining dining room. Unfortunately their path was quickly blocked by another RAMC officer. Sherlock with his admittedly limited knowledge of the military couldn't identify his rank, but he knew that it was high while still being less than a general. He was single, obviously human, in his mid to late fifties, and had recently gained weight, judging by how tight his uniform fit. His hair had gone all gray and while Sherlock doubted that the man had ever been particularly attractive, aging certainly hadn't helped. When he stepped in front of them Jo stopped immediately, her body becoming tense and rigid. Sherlock felt her begin to reach for his hand, but she quickly aborted the motion and clenched her hands into fists.

The man spoke first, sneering at Jo and ignoring Sherlock. "Well, well, well, if it isn't little Miss Watson." Sherlock honestly expected Jo to give some biting retort, but when she remained silent he decided that he couldn't let blatant disrespect slide.

"That's Doctor Watson," he practically growled. "You would do well to remember it."

The man just laughed, his eyes cold and harsh. "Oh Miss Watson, you've got a new pet, but I think perhaps your dog needs a muzzle. Tell me, do you keep this one on a leash?" Sherlock was mildly surprised by the venom in the man's voice, but it honestly wasn't anything he hadn't heard before. He was, however, stunned by Jo's reaction. She inserted herself in between the two men, her body language dripping with homicidal (or GBH at the very least) intent.

"Watch your mouth McGovern," she hissed, her tone enough to send shivers that he would never admit to down Sherlock's back.

"Oh, protective are we?" McGovern taunted. "Just what do you think you'll do to me if I don't? Because, Miss Watson, I think I'd quite like to teach your mutt to heel."

Jo pressed forward menacingly. "I'll cut out your tongue for starters." Sherlock knew Jo very well, he trusted her morality above anyone else's, and he was more than familiar with threats she made in order to get her point across; he still wasn't able to entirely convince himself that she was bluffing with McGovern.

McGovern just laughed. "Your insubordination is quite astounding; I didn't even get a salute when I stopped you. It's a shame really, you were such a good little soldier."

"I'm not a soldier anymore," she bit out. "And I suggest you get out of my way before I make you." McGovern stared down at her for several long minutes before calmly stepping aside. Jo didn't acknowledge him as she marched swiftly out of the room, Sherlock trailing closely behind her. He wanted to say something to help calm her down or reassure her, like she often (always) did for him, but he didn't know what to do without making things worse, so he just kept silent.

By some miracle (Jo suspected Jack's ever sticky fingers) Jo and Sherlock were seated across from Jackson and Isabella. Jo was stoically silent and Jack seemed to be able to recognize her mood well enough to leave her alone. There was an incredibly dull speech which Jo glared her way through and then dinner was served. After fifteen minutes of small talk, which even Sherlock participated after he (begrudgingly) admitted that Jackson and Isabella weren't completely boring, Jo seemed to shake off her anger and began to cautiously join their conversation. By the time desert was served she and Jackson were taking turns regaling their dates with stories (sometimes interrupting each other in the process) that kept them all in stitches. Sherlock had kept scanning the room, but he hadn't been able to find any sign of their killer; still, he had learned more about Jo in those few hours, and he couldn't bring himself to begrudge anything that managed to give him a better understanding of his flatmate.

Finally there was a lull in the conversation and Jo leaned across the table and blurted out a question. "Jack, how is Liam?" Sherlock recognized the name from several of Jo and Jackson's stories, and although Jo had never mentioned Liam before, he could tell from the way she asked about him that he was very important to her.

Jackson sighed, his eyes crinkling with muted sadness. "He's good, Jo. Promise. Don't you two talk?"

Jo nodded. "Of course we do. We email back and forth and Skype when he gets the chance, but we're both lying through our teeth trying to convince the other that we're doing just fine on our own. Please, tell me how he really is."

He sighed again. "He's sad, and lonely, and he worries about you constantly, but he's not wilting away - I promise." She nodded but didn't look convinced so Jack grabbed her hand across the table and continued speaking. "Hey, you left him stronger than you think. He's still running around like a hyperactive puppy, and he's been fighting with the new head surgeon because he's not you and thus Liam thinks that he's a complete imbecile. He's doing fine, he's keeping out of trouble, and he'll be home before you know it. You don't have to worry about him, Jo; you did good by him, more than good, and he's going to be just fine." Jo sighed and sat back in her seat, looking more dejected than anything else.

"I'll never stop worrying about him," she mumbled, and Sherlock could have sworn that she looked like she was about to cry. Jack fell silent for a moment before launching into another story in an obvious attempt to try and deflect attention away from Jo.

The event was over soon after that and Jo hugged her friend and his girlfriend goodbye and Sherlock shook their hands with a friendly-ish smile. He and Jo left shortly after that, but he had had to take a detour to the men's room, leaving Jo alone to collect their coats. When he returned Jo had been cornered yet again by McGovern. They seemed to be even closer to violence than they had been before, and Sherlock was just about to intervene when Jo shoved McGovern hard and darted past him; McGovern just laughed. She quickly crossed the room to where her friend was standing and threw his coat at him, walking out of the building without looking back. Sherlock caught up to her, falling into step beside her. He shoved his hands into his pockets and bit the inside of his cheek to keep from saying anything.

Lestrade, who had been camped out across the street in case they had needed back up, met them on the street corner. "So, how'd it go?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I didn't see him. It was a long shot anyway."

Jo turned to him, her eyes blazing. "A long shot? You put me through my own personal hell for a long shot?" There was a slight pause, but before Sherlock could say anything she started screaming. "What the hell is wrong with you? You stupid, inconsiderate bastard! I mean I always knew that you didn't give a damn about anyone else, but I had hoped that you would at least stop before sending someone into a mental breakdown! God! You fucking bastard!"

"Jo…" he said, reaching out to try and calm her down so that he could explain.

She jerked away from him. "No! Don't you fucking touch me! What gives you the right to treat people like this?"

"I'm sorry," he whispered, hoping that it would placate her long enough for him to explain.

She snorted, obviously disgusted. "Stop! You may think I'm a complete idiot, but I'm not stupid enough to stand here and let you manipulate me."

"I"m not…" he insisted, shaking his head. But she didn't let him finish before turning and walking away.

"Piss off Sherlock," she yelled, her tone making it clear that she was very serious and that it'd be in his best interest not to follow.

Sherlock turned to Lestrade, looking utterly dejected. "I didn't mean to hurt her; I didn't know."

Lestrade sighed and squeezed his shoulder. "I know. You could go after her; I'm sure the case will wait long enough for you to smooth things over with her. Just, you know, be sincere."

He shook his head. "No, it's fine. She doesn't want me to follow. And while she may not be a wolf and is thus incapable of actually ripping my throat out, I really don't want to put that theory to the test."

He chuckled. "You have a good point there. Although I never thought I'd see the day when you didn't want to test a theory."

"I like my throat intact," he replied imperiously. "Now, I'm going to go to your office; you can either come with me or give me your keys."

He sighed. "I'll come; Alice wanted to spend time with the kids anyway." Sherlock nodded and set about hailing a cab.

Sherlock was driving Lestrade crazy. He was so jumpy and fidgety that Greg would have thought he was on something if he hadn't known better. He would have been able to put up with that, however, if they were making any progress whatsoever on the case, but they weren't and the only purpose the detective's restlessness served was to drive the DI up the wall. Finally, after over an hour of Sherlock's maddening twitching, Lestrade decided that enough was enough.

"Sherlock," he said sternly, hoping that the younger man would actually listen to him. "Go home. We both know that you don't want to be here. Go home and talk to Jo." Sherlock looked like he was about to argue, but the fight quickly went out of him and he nodded. He hesitated for a few more moments before leaving without another word. Lestrade sighed with relief before sitting behind his desk and settling in for the night.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock knew that something was wrong before he even opened the door to 221 Baker Street. It wasn't anything that he could easily identify: something was just off and it made all of his wolf instincts light up like a Christmas Tree. His hair stood on end as he walked into the foyer, and a low growl escaped his throat when he saw Mrs. Hudson's wolf lying crumpled and unconscious at the foot of the stairs. He quickly checked to make sure that she was still breathing before hurrying upstairs. What he found was less than comforting. Jo was missing, but everything else in the flat, save for the kitchen, was exactly as normal. He took a deep breath before dialing for Lestrade, who thankfully picked up after only a few rings.

"Jo's gone," he said without preamble.

"What do you mean gone?" Lestrade asked, sounding concerned.

Sherlock practically growled. "I mean she's gone! The kitchen is trashed and Mrs. Hudson is unconscious by the stairs. Someone took her!"

"Alright," Lestrade answer, his voice as calm as possible. "I'll be right there. Don't touch the crime scene."

"I'm not an imbecile," he bit out. "I know procedure!" He hung up without saying anything else.

Sherlock pocketed his phone and stepped gingerly into the kitchen. There was a carton of ice cream that had been knocked over and was now melting on the counter next to an overturned bowl. Another bowl lay shattered on the ground next to most of Sherlock's science equipment; he allowed himself a small smile as he saw that Jo hadn't gone without a fight. After only a few minutes he had pieced together what had happened.

By the time that Jo got home she had calmed down considerably and was feeling more than a little guilty about yelling at Sherlock. She took a quick shower and changed into her pajamas. She was in the kitchen getting herself a bowl of ice cream when she heard the front door open. She honestly hadn't expected Sherlock to be home at all that night, let alone so early; she froze for a moment, not quite sure what to do, but she quickly decided to give a peace offering.

"Sherlock," she called, trying to keep her voice light, "I'm making some ice cream. Do you want some?" He didn't answer her, but she was knew that there was a good chance that he was just too wrapped up in the case to register someone else speaking.

"Did you hear me?" She asked, raising her voice. "Do you want ice cream? It's not even vanilla." She didn't wait for a response and just got down a second bowl from the cupboard. She heard steps on the linoleum behind her and, as usual, assumed that it was a sign of silent acquiescence. She didn't realize just how very wrong she had been until the needle plunged into her neck. She tried to fight back, but the drug quickly took effect and Jo fell unconscious.

"Not Moriarty," Sherlock mumbled to himself. "Moriarty likes to play. This isn't a game; this is almost military. Oh. Stupid, stupid! Of course, the others were just messages, but there has to be someone to get the messages. I said it myself, she's the only one who could have known all those things. But who? It would have had to have been someone at the banquet." He paused, thinking back; it was then that he caught the scent, vaguely familiar and definitely antagonistic. He gasped when he was finally able to place it. "Obvious."

He was still standing in his crime scene of a kitchen when the paramedics, along with Lestrade, arrived. By that time Mrs. Hudson had already roused herself and put her bathrobe on, and although she let the paramedics examine her, she refused to let them take her to the hospital, opting instead to go up stairs and make sure that Sherlock was alright. He was standing in the living room, surrounded by members of the met and typing vigorously on his phone. He was visibly restraining himself from growling and snapping at anyone who dared to even look at him, and Mrs. Hudson felt her heart break for the man; what would happen to him if Dr. Watson wasn't alright didn't bear thinking about in her opinion.

She put her hand on his arm; it was just a gentle touch to draw his attention to her. "I'm sorry Sherlock. I didn't realize anything was wrong when he first came in - I thought he was you - but then I heard the struggle and came out to make sure that everything was alright. He hit me over the head before I had the chance to do anything. I'm sorry."

"It's my fault," he replied, briefly placing his hand over hers. "I should have seen this coming. It was obvious, and I just didn't observe. I'll get her back; I promise."

Mrs. Hudson nodded. "Of course you will. I didn't get a great look at him, but I can give you a bit of a description if you think it'll help."

"There's no need Mrs. Hudson," he answered, his voice almost kind. "I know who it is. Colonel James McGovern." Sherlock pulled his arm away from his landlady as Lestrade approached the pair.

"Are you sure that it's him, Sherlock?" He asked with a sigh. "I mean I'll trust your judgment on this, of course I will, but you have to be absolutely positive."

"Of course I'm sure," Sherlock growled. "He's the only one it could be; no one else, other than Jackson and it's obvious that it couldn't be him, showed any interest in Jo. And I can smell McGovern here. He didn't get close enough to either Jo or me for his scent to have traveled any other way than him actually physically being in this room."

Lestrade nodded, all traces of doubt immediately evaporating. "Right then. Any idea where he might be?" A pained look crossed his face.

"No," he murmured. "He's never left any traces behind."

The DI nodded again. "Well we'll find him. It is our job after all, and we're not completely inept." If Sherlock had been in any less of a foul mood he would have given Lestrade a small smile at that (or a scathing remark contradicting him), but as it was he just gave one curt nod and hoped that the older man recognized it for what it was; he did.

Jo really felt as if she should have seen this whole thing coming; McGovern had had it out for her since she met him, and she always suspected that one day he would just snap. Unfortunately her pleasure at having been right was severely outweighed by her despair at her current situation. Whatever McGovern had given her was strong and she could barely get her limbs to respond at all, let alone with enough force to properly defend herself. He had obviously been unsure of the dosage, however, because she was already able to stand, albeit a bit shakily, on her own. She knew if she could just hold out long enough to get her body back under control, then she would be able to incapacitate McGovern; unfortunately that was easier said than done. She and McGovern were facing each other and as she was waiting for the next blow to come when he pulled out a knife. He lunged at her and she couldn't help but think that survival really was easier said then done. Pain bloomed in her chest as he sliced at her, cutting open her shirt, but she was able to turn away from the blade and avoided too much damage. She managed to bring her arm up and dig her fingernails into his cheek, taking morbid satisfaction in his grunt of pain and the bloody scratch marks she left behind.

Sherlock paced back and forth. All signs showed that McGovern had taken Jo back to his house, which was really a very stupid thing to do considering how brilliant the man had been in the commission of his other crimes, but Sherlock wasn't inclined to complain when such stupidity raised Jo's chances of survival significantly. He was surrounded by officers preparing to storm the house, and he was itching to be let in on the raid. Lestrade finally came back from where he had been discussing tactics and gave Sherlock a searching look.

"Alright," he said sternly. "You can come with us, but only if you get yourself under control."

"I am under control," Sherlock bit out, ignoring the growl that rumbled in his chest.

Lestrade rolled his eyes. "Barely. I can see your skin shifting from here. You're one push away from changing, and that's not going to help anyone." Sherlock glared fiercely at him, but the DI didn't back down and after a few moments Sherlock closed his eyes and took deep breath. After a few tense seconds the lycan's entire body seemed to settle and when he opened his eyes again the only sign that he wasn't as completely calm as he seemed was a slight twitching in his cheek. Lestrade nodded curtly and turned to rally his troops.

As soon as he was inside the front door Sherlock could smell Jo; his heart leapt at that, thankful for the knowledge that at least they were in the right place. He followed the scent, which led him to what looked to be the sitting room. There was a fire roaring in the fireplace and it looked like it had been at one time a very well decorated and tasteful room, but now it looked like a battle ground. Tables and chairs had been knocked over, the sofa was definitely shifted out of place, shards of glass from a broken lamp were scattered on the floor, and in addition to the fresh stains on the carpet there was blood smeared on the walls. The blood was still wet and Sherlock took comfort in the fact that there were no signs of the blood having pooled anywhere. He was still trying to work out exactly what had happened when he heard shouts coming from the basement. His heart was pounding as he raced down the stairs, he had to push through the crowd of people to actually get into the room. Once he was in he froze, his eyes flicking around and cataloging everything.

McGovern was on his knees in the middle of the room, cradling what looked like a broken wrist with his uninjured arm; there was a bloody knife laying just out of his reach. Jo was leaning against the far wall, her chest heaving. Her favorite old gray t-shirt had been sliced from collar to just above the hem and was hanging open, giving full view to her now blood soaked bra; Jo seemed completely oblivious to her partial nudity, but Sherlock was pretty sure that his friend wouldn't care at all if anyone was so immature that the sight of her bra created an overwhelming distraction. Her whole torso was rising and falling rapidly as she tried to catch her breath, and her blood stained military id tags glinted from where they hung, as usual, from around her neck. There was a slash across her chest, mostly in the space between her throat and her breasts, and another cut on her stomach; thankfully, neither wound looked very deep. Her pajama bottoms had faired slightly better than her top, but only slightly; they were covered in rips, tears, scorch marks, and blood stains that were never going to come out. There was blood smeared in her hair, which was falling out of it's typical pony tail. Her face was battered and several dark bruises were already blooming; there was a gash above her left eye and her bottom lip was split open. She was barefoot, but seemed to have been lucky enough to avoid stepping on any of the glass chards either upstairs or back at Baker Street. When her eyes finally focused on Sherlock she grinned, causing even more blood to flow from her lip.

"You're late," she said breathily.

Sherlock choked out a laugh that was closer to a sob. "I am. But you know me, always one for dramatics. I thought that a police raid would be suitably theatrical. It seemed better than me just dashing in on my own."

"Very appropriate," she answered, her voice gaining strength. "Although you can be impressively affecting on your own. When you've got a good swish on with your coat it almost looks like a cape, and don't even get me started on your cheekbones. I swear you make them more dramatic on purpose."

He laughed again, still sounding slightly miserable. "You can blame my mother for my cheekbones."

"I'll blame you all I want, thank you very much," she replied, still smiling. "I wouldn't put it past you to alter your own genetics in utero."

He shook his head. "Your science isn't making any sense. What did he give you?"

She shrugged. "Hell if I know, but it's wearing off. You know, you look kind of like Batman when your coat gets all swishy." They were both studiously ignoring the man crouching on the ground between them; the police stayed in the background, confused by the friends' reaction to the situation.

"I can't be Batman," he replied, rolling his eyes. "Because then you'd be Robin and that's simply unacceptable." After a slight paused he added, "I'm sorry." He was fairly certain that she would be able to decipher everything he meant by that.

Jo smirked before licking at her lip, obviously trying to catch some of the blood before it dribbled down her chin. "At least I didn't have my date with me this time."

Sherlock nodded and his returning smile was as close to self-deprecating as the man ever got in public. "Yes, he was too busy being an insufferable idiot to see what was right in front of his face." At that she burst out laughing, but quickly cut it off with a wince.

"Ow, don't make me laugh," she said, still smiling through her grimace. "I think he cracked a couple ribs." The comment drew Sherlock's attention back to her attacker and a low, menacing growl escaped his throat.

He looked back up at her and forced lightness back into his voice. "Well come on then, there are paramedics outside. Let's get you taped up." Jo froze, her smile fading instantly and her gaze dropping to the man on the floor. It took Sherlock a moment to realize that Jo wasn't just leaning against the wall because she needed its support; it was also because she was afraid, almost terrified, of the man cowering between her and the door.

He nodded curtly. "Right." He stepped forward and grabbed McGovern by the arm and wrenched him to his feet. He practically through him across the room towards the officers waiting to arrest him as he growled again, this time sounding even more menacing. He took a few deep breaths to calm himself down before turning back to Jo.

"Come on, let's go," he said, reaching for her arm so that he could help her. She jerked away from him.

"I can walk on my own," she bit out, her eyes flashing with something close to anger.

He pulled his hand back and nonchalantly put it in his pocket. "Of course you can." He nodded to the door in an indication that they should leave. Jo took a deep breath and pushed herself off the wall. She kept her left arm pressed tightly against her side, her elbow crooked so that she could curl her forearm around her torso, and she was limping heavily. The officers parted and let them through without any interference. It was slow going but Sherlock kept pace with her the entire time. She stumbled once or twice, mostly on the stairs, but her personal high functioning sociopath was always there to catch her, letting her go as soon as she had regained her balance.

When Sherlock had first appeared in the basement Jo had thought that he seemed remarkably calm, aside from the growling which was really to be expected. She wasn't offended by this, she knew that Sherlock cared for her, it was obvious in the way he indulged in her ridiculous banter, and she honestly found it comforting; it was like he was her anchor in a storm. But once the were closer, side by side as she stumbled along in a sick parody of their usually matching strides, she could see how not calm he really was. The man was literally shaking, and Jo was sure that she could actually see his skin beginning to shift; she was really quite impressed that he was able to keep from completing the transformation. He seemed to understand her need to make it out of the house on her own, and she didn't think she had ever loved him more. Once, as they were trying to exit the front door, one of the forensics officers accidentally bumped into Jo, casing her to give a small cry of pain. Jo thought that Sherlock was going to take his head off - if the amount of growling and extremely aggressive posturing was any indication - but he quieted immediately when she took hold of his arm, pulling just a bit.

They finally made it to the waiting ambulance, although Sherlock did have to growl threateningly a few times in order to convince the paramedics to let Jo walk the rest of the way on their own. Once she was seated in the back, however, the EMT's completely took over and all of Sherlock's growlings were subsequently ignored. Jo's strength reserves seemed to be completely tapped and she almost melted, letting the paramedics manipulate her limbs any which way they pleased as they tried to assess her injuries. They seemed to get more and more agitated at her increasingly dreamlike state and her apparent unwillingness to answer any of their questions; in fact, she seemed content to completely ignore them, keeping her eyes focused intently on Sherlock. She finally reacted to their presence when one of the men grabbed her id tags and yanked on them to get her attention.

"What type of Lycan are you?" He demanded loudly, still gripping the tags and shaking them for emphasis. "Tell me what classification you are!" Jo recoiled, grabbing the chain around her neck and trying to pull it away from him. She hid it well, but Sherlock saw the glint of fear in her eyes.

"She's not a lycan you moron!" He yelled, grabbing the man and pulling him away from his friend. "Those are her military tags! They're not even shaped right!" He yanked his own identification tags out from underneath his shirt. "These are what lycan tags look like, you complete imbeciles!" Jo seemed to rouse herself from her stupor and was obviously trying to get up, but the paramedics kept pushing her back down; she was getting more and more agitated and Sherlock could see that she was working herself up into something nearing panic, especially when one of the female paramedics started pushing Sherlock away, telling him that he had to leave because he was upsetting the patient. At that Jo redoubled her efforts, getting almost violent. Sherlock saw one of them begin to prepare a sedative and decided to put an end to this madness that was very obviously leading nowhere good.

"Jo," he said, his voice commanding yet kind. "It's okay. I have to go check something in the house, anyway." Jo nodded and seemed to deflate a bit before rousing herself once again and steeling herself to deal with the paramedics. Sherlock allowed himself a small smile at her resilience before turning to go back into the house and make up a reason for his being there.

Jo put up with the paramedics fairly well right up until they wanted to start giving her stitches, and then she gave up on cooperation all together when they started insisting that she be taken to the hospital. She forced herself to her feet several times only to be firmly pushed back down, which was doing nothing for her throbbing shoulder; all of her protestations went completely unheeded. They were once again talking about preparing a sedative when Lestrade came walking up. She looked at him pleadingly, silently begging him to help her; the DI didn't fail her.

"Right then," he said matter-of-factly. "I need to take Dr. Watson's statement." One of the paramedics started to protest, and while they were all distracted Jo managed to get to her feet and dodge all of the hands trying to press her back down.

She stood firmly next to Lestrade. "I'm fine. I'll give my statement and then take a cab home. It's not a problem."

"But you need stitches," one of the women protested.

"I'm a doctor," Jo answered, almost yelling. "I can do it myself. Look, I don't have a concussion, the cuts are shallow and mostly superficial, and my ribs are cracked but not broken. I'm going home, this is not a discussion. I am not letting you touch me again."

"But your leg," she continued forcefully.

"It's psychosomatic," she bit out. Lestrade recognized the look on her face as one very similar to the way Sherlock looked right before he made someone cry.

He reinserted himself into the conversation, taking Jo gently but firmly by the arm. "Come on Doctor, let's go. I've sent someone out for coffee and they should be back any minute now."

"Gregory Lestrade, you are a saint," she answered with a smile as she began hobbling away. He just grinned at her and easily matched her pace in a way that made it seem like he wasn't walking slower that he head since his last child became proficient enough to run.

As soon as they were in a more secluded location, and after Lestrade had retrieved a cup of coffee for them both, Jo gave her statement. It matched Sherlock's description of events almost exactly and was professional, practically military in its precision, and utterly impersonal; so impersonal, in fact, that Lestrade was beginning to worry that disassociating herself completely from the attack. He eventually decided that if that was the case, then this was neither the time nor the place to bring it up; he would make sure to stop by and check in on her later in the week to see how she was doing. Once Jo finished detailing what had happened, the DI was horrified to realize that there was one more, very important question that he had to ask. The question ended up being poorly worded and awkwardly delivered, but Jo just laughed him off, assuring him that the attack hadn't been in any way sexual, or at least not overtly sexual. Lestrade nodded, immensely relieved.

"Sociopath my arse," Jo muttered, smiling fondly as she looked over the DI's shoulder to where Sherlock was flapping about, apparently trying to convince one of the sergeants to allow him to speak with McGovern. She sighed and then continued. "Do you think you could keep him occupied for a few minutes; I just need a bit of a breather."

Lestrade frowned. "Are you alright?" He knew it was a stupid question as soon as it left his mouth, but Jo just smiled at him.

"I'll be fine," she said reassuringly. "I just need a few minutes on my own to process. I'll see you later Greg; you know where to find me if you have any more questions about my statement." She didn't wait for him to answer her before turning and limping away.

Jo walked away from the house until she found a spot where a tree would mostly hide her from those in the front yard; she knew that it wouldn't take Sherlock long to come for her, but she really only needed a few minutes. She sat down on the curb and pulled the atrocious orange shock blanket that the paramedics had given her tighter around herself. She fished around in the absurdly large pockets of her pajama bottoms and pulled out her phone, thankful that it had survived the experience relatively unscathed. She quickly scrolled through her contacts and found the one she wanted, not giving herself time to talk herself out of it. She knew that the chances of someone actually answering were extremely slim, and she tried to pretend that she wasn't disappointed when she got voice mail.

"Hey Liam," she began, keeping her voice light so that her friend wouldn't worry. "I just thought I'd call and check in. It's just been a difficult week, and I uh, I just wanted to say that I miss you." She had to pause in order to keep herself under control. She decided to ring off before she completely gave herself away. "Well, I'll talk to you when I talk to you. Don't worry about calling me back. I love you Lee."

After she hung up Jo squeezed her eyes shut and focused all of her attention on not crying. She rested her elbows on her knees and gripped her phone in both hands; her head was bowed almost as if in prayer. She was so deep in thought that she didn't even notice that she wasn't alone until Sherlock touched her hands. She looked up sharply but relaxed when she saw her friend. The detective was kneeling in front of her with his hands folded around hers. Her blanket had fallen open, but Jo didn't move, figuring that it was too late for a false sense of modesty.

She cracked a smile. "Your trousers are going to get all dirty."

"I have a very good dry cleaner," he answered, quirking his lips upward.

She smirked at him. "But what will people say about the state of your knees?"

"Any number of things, I'm sure," he responded dryly, his voice rougher than usual. Jo suddenly realized that her hands were shaking and tried to pull them away, but Sherlock tightened his grip, refusing to let go.

"You don't have to be so strong all the time," he whispered, trying to force her to make eye contact.

"I can take care of myself," she insisted, stubbornly keeping her eyes trained on their hands.

He nodded. "Of course you can, but you don't have to. It's okay, Jo."

She shook her head and squeezed her eyes shut again as a tear escaped. "No it's not." Sherlock reached up and wiped it away with his thumb. This small gesture weakened her strict control, and before she really knew what was happening Jo was sobbing. Sherlock pulled her into a hug, rubbing what he hoped were comforting circles on her back. Their positioning was awkward and everything hurt, but Jo clung to him like he was her lifeline; she buried her face in his neck and and clutched his jacket in her fists. Sherlock held onto her as tightly as he dared, whispering nonsense words in her ear in a desperate attempt to help his friend. Jo was shaking almost violently and Sherlock could feel as well as hear her struggling for breath; the only thing keeping Sherlock from going and literally ripping McGovern to shreds was the fact that he didn't want to leave Jo alone again. Eventually her sobs subsided and she started to pull away; this time Sherlock let her go.

"I'm sorry; I got you all bloody," she said, wiping ineffectually at the blood smears on his neck and cheek.

He forced a smile. " Already told you, have a very good dry cleaner. Don't worry about it."

She huffed a small laugh before sighing and looking down at the blood that had already started to seep through the temporary bandages the paramedics had given her. "I need stitches."

"Do you want to go to the A&E?" He asked quietly. When she shook her head he continued seamlessly. "Alright, we'll take care of it at home." He carefully helped her to her feet before taking off his coat and helping her into it, ignoring her weak protests and leaving the shock blanket in a pile on the ground.

"I've called a taxi," he announced once she was buttoned in properly. "It should be here soon if it isn't already." He offered her his arm and after a few seconds she took it, leaning her weight on him as they walked slowly to the road.

When the cabbie saw Jo, barefoot and covered in blood he tried to say that he had changed his mind about taking them, but after a few well chosen words from Sherlock he decided to let them in anyway. Sherlock helped Jo into the car before sliding in next to her and closing the door tightly against the chill. Jo's still shaking hand found his and they intertwined their fingers as if it was something they did everyday instead of only after nearer-to-death-than-usual experiences. Jo leaned her head against her friend's shoulder and let her eyes fall shut and her breathing even out.

"Hey," Sherlock said a few minutes later, giving her hand a squeeze, "don't fall asleep. You might have a concussion."

"I don't have a concussion," she answered petulantly. She opened her eyes anyway and Sherlock squeezed her hand again in thanks.

A few minutes later Jo spoke again, her tone dangerously close to whining. "These pajamas are completely unsalvageable."

"I'm sorry," Sherlock replied. "I'll buy you new ones."

She sighed. "That's not the point. It took years to get these ones worn in properly."

"Well then I'll give you a pair of mine," he answered, smirking.

She rolled her eyes. "You just want me to smell even more like you." Sherlock just hummed in response and she rolled her eyes again.

When they reached Baker Street, Sherlock paid the fare while Jo got a head start towards their flat. Mrs. Hudson met her at the door, but the landlady was exhausted herself, and, after letting her fuss for a moment or two Jo sent her to bed. She deposited Sherlock's coat on it's peg and then made her way upstairs under the careful supervision of her friend. She collapsed on the couch, unwilling to attempt the second flight of stairs up to her room without a small break first; she closed her eyes and focused on making her breaths as deep as possible without causing excessive pain. Sherlock barely paused before darting upstairs. He retrieved Jo's medical kit from underneath her bed and a flannel and a bowl of warm water from the kitchen. He came back into the sitting room, being careful to make enough noise so that she wouldn't be surprised when he knelt down in front of her. She opened her eyes and frowned down at him in confusion.

He tried to smile at her reassuringly. "I'm going to stitch you up now, alright?"

"Okay," she answered tiredly. "Start with the one on my chest; it's deeper. Do you need me to move?"

Sherlock shook his head. "No you're fine. I can reach."

"Of course you can," she answered, rolling her eyes. "You tall, lanky git."

He smiled at her as he straightened up so that they were eye to eye before reaching out and carefully peeling off the bandage. He dipped the flannel in the water and cleaned the wound. Jo may have been the actual doctor at 221b, but Sherlock had more than enough practical experience to make him at least as proficient as any medical student. He took extra care with Jo, far more than he would have if he was just sewing himself back together, making sure that each stitch was even and precise, not pulling the skin in a way that would be uncomfortable. By the time he finished with the slash across her chest he was quite pleased with himself; he doubted if it would even leave much of a scar. He moved on to the cut on her side, which was both smaller and straighter and thus required far less attention to detail. It quickly became monotonous and tedious, so Sherlock began looking for a way to start a conversation; he had always despised the habit doctors had of trying to make small talk during exams, but he understood it now.

He pointed at an older scar that sat low on the right side of her abdomen, dipping below the waist of her pajamas. "Where did you get this? It's old."

"I was in a car accident when I was fifteen," she answered calmly. "A piece of metal went straight through - there's an exit wound on the back. Luckily, it missed most of my internal organs."

He noted her wording and raised one eyebrow. "Most?"

"It went through one of my ovaries," she clarified, "and it nicked my other fallopian tube. The surgeon tied of my second fallopian tube because with my scar tissue pregnancy would most likely be fatal. So I still menstruate every month, but I'll never actually get pregnant."

"I'm sorry," Sherlock whispered, feeling that that was the appropriate response.

Jo smiled at him. "Don't be, I've had a long time to get used to the idea. And besides, it's not like having children has ever factored into my lifestyle. I like my life just fine without them."

"What about when you settle down with a nice man?" He asked, unsure of why he was pushing the issue.

"If that ever happens, we'll adopt," she said, matter of factly. "Although the likelihood of me ever settling down is rather slim."

Sherlock frowned. "Why? You have many qualities that would make you a more than acceptable mate."

"Thank you," she replied with a small laugh, taking it for the compliment it was. "But I don't want to settle down. Why would I want to leave this?"

He rolled his eyes. "Oh I don't know; maybe because I'm currently trying to stitch you back together."

"To be fair, this probably would have happened if I was living with you or not," she said kindly. Sherlock had halted his work at the point and the friends were looking intently at each other; he wasn't quite sure when this had gone from small talk intended to stave off boredom to something much more serious.

He huffed at her. "But this isn't the only time you've been hurt! And what about Moriarty? You wouldn't even be on his radar if it wasn't for me."

"Are you trying to convince me to move out?" She asked, shaking her head.

He sighed, letting the fight leak out of him. "Of course not. I just don't know why you would want to stay forever; nobody else does."

"Sherlock," she said fondly, drawing out the vowels into something similar to a singsong. "I love this. I was miserable before I met you, and now I'm not. It's worth any number of wounds to keep chasing after you, and I'll keep doing it until you get bored with me." Sherlock's lips quirked up in that shy smile he had when he was really very pleased by something and didn't want to show it.

"Well then you'll be stuck with me for a good long while then."

Jo's resulting grin split her lip open again. "I look forward to it." Sherlock nodded once before returning to the task at hand; he steadfastly ignored the set of five long, nearly parallel scars on her left side and hip that he knew could only have been caused by a lycan whose claws were only partially extended. He quickly finished her stitches and put a bandage on the cut over her eye before sitting back on his heels and looking at her appraisingly.

"Is there anything else?" When she shook her head he pressed forward. "What about your leg?"

"It's psychosomatic," she answered, sounding almost reassuring. "It'll be fine after a hot shower and a good night's sleep." She levered herself off of the couch and smiled down at her friend. "Speaking of which, I'm going to go shower now. I'll be down in a bit, and you can help me bind up my ribs." He nodded and she made her way up the stairs, her limp noticeably less pronounced than before.


	5. Chapter 5

When Jo came down after her shower Sherlock was waiting with a hot cup of overly sweet tea. She took it with a smile and didn't even grimace at the frankly heinous amount of sugar that had been added. They were both quiet as Sherlock placed bandages over her stitches and then wrapped her ribs. When he was finished Jo sat down on the couch with her tea in her right hand, trying to ignore how badly her left hand was shaking. Sherlock took the bandage scraps to the bin in the kitchen and returned with a hot water bottle for Jo's aching shoulder. She thanked him for it, her polite smile only half forced, and was just getting it settled when the doorbell rang and Sherlock bolted down the stairs to answer it. He came bounding back up to their flat, skipping two stairs at a time by the sound of it, and Jo was briefly afraid that he was going to miss one and knock himself out and then she'd have to either call an ambulance or figure out how to pick him up herself. Thankfully he made it to their sitting room in one piece, carrying several bags of food that smelled absolutely delicious; Jo's stomach rumbled loudly and upon hearing the sound, Sherlock beamed at her, looking almost childishly proud of himself.

"I ordered Italian," he announced, setting the bags on the coffee table. "I know that you like pasta when you are tired or had a bad day."

She smiled up at him. "You can use the term 'comfort food.' And thank you; I really appreciate it."

"I know you didn't eat very much at dinner," he continued, sounding as if he was trying to justify his actions. "I'll go get something to drink." He dashed out of the room again before Jo had the chance to say anything else. She just smiled to herself before leaning forward and unpacking the food, wincing a bit at how the motion pulled at her ribs. Sherlock came whirling back in and took over dispensing the food, glaring at her as if she were trying to spite him by serving herself.

The pair was sitting side by side on the sofa and had just started eating when Sherlock spoke again. "I cleaned up the kitchen."

"Thank you," Jo answered, refraining from mentioning that this was probably the first time in their acquaintance that he could honestly say such a thing. "I'm sorry I yelled at you earlier; I was just upset about everything, but I really shouldn't have taken it out on you. And I am very sorry about your chemistry set. It's a bit fuzzy, but I'm pretty sure I tried to throw it at him."

He waived off her apology. "It was the most effective weapon you had at hand."

"Effective isn't exactly the word I'd use," she responded dryly. Sherlock hummed and there was a long stretch of silence as the friends ate. Eventually Sherlock put his plate down on the table and turned so that he was facing his friend, his expression solemn. He looked as if he was searching for words, and Jo stayed silent in order to allow him to do so without any pressure from her.

Finally, he cleared his throat. "Jo, I really am very sorry about all of this. I should have known that he was going to come after you. You were the only one who could have read the messages he left; I knew that the killer would be at the banquet in order to watch if not openly taunt his intended victim, and McGovern was the only one who behaved in that way towards you. I saw but failed to observe, and for that I am truly sorry." He wore such an intense look of pained contrition that Jo couldn't help but reach out and take his hand.

"Sherlock," she said kindly, giving his hand a squeeze to make sure that he was paying attention. "It's not your fault. McGovern has had it out for me for years; this was bound to happen sometime. It is in no way your fault, understand?" After a few tense moments Sherlock nodded, dropping his eyes away from her piercing gaze. Jo held onto his hand for a few more seconds before giving it one last squeeze and returning to her meal.

After they finished eating Sherlock cleaned up, silencing Jo with a glare when she tried to protest. He returned a few minutes later with ibuprofen and another cup of (slightly less sweet) tea. Jo thanked him for both and then sank back into the couch. Sherlock resumed his position beside her, but he allowed the companionable silence to continue without interruption. Jo's hand was still shaking and she was half convinced that when she finally got up again her leg would give out, but they both did their best to ignore these physical signs of her continued distress. She was just about to get up and retreat to her room for the next twelve hours or so when Sherlock finally spoke again.

"Jo, there's still something I don't understand," he said quietly, sounding almost tentative (which really wasn't something that Jo had ever wanted to hear in her almost always confident friend). "I mean I know that McGovern was obviously extremely disturbed, but why was he so focused on you?" Jo stared at him for a long while, almost long enough to make Sherlock feel uncomfortable under the scrutiny; she looked as if she were trying to gauge his trustworthiness, and he wasn't really sure what to make of that. Finally she seemed to come to some sort of decision, and while she was still tense, her gaze did become less searching.

"I joined the army when I was 29. I had already been a doctor for four years and already had a fair bit of experience specializing in Lycans, so after basic training, and then officer's training, I was stationed at Base L967 in Northumberland, the same one as Rick Newman - we called it Wolfsbane because it had a better ring to it and we had greenhouses full of the stuff. I made Captain pretty quickly - sooner than a lot of people liked - but I was good at my job and I needed the rank in order to manage the research projects I was supposed to be heading. McGovern was the CO but Leads is the one who promoted me - he went over McGovern's head to do it and I don't think McGovern ever forgave me for that. He had other issues with me, of course, but I think that's the one that tipped it over from resentment to hate.

"I was the only woman on base; there aren't many female lycan specialists to begin with, and none of them really wanted to join the army. Then McGovern told me that I couldn't wear the women's uniform because it made me stand out too much, and that they couldn't spare any separate housing for me, so I had to live in the barracks with everyone else, which wasn't so bad; I still got to use the officer's showers, which weren't communal, and I never really had a problem changing in front of other people. But then McGovern made a rule that if you live in the barracks you had to use the communal shower. I dealt with that too, taking showers when no one else would be there, in the middle of the night or during lunch. He caught onto that after a few months and started rearranging my schedule so that the only times I could shower was when everyone else was. Next it was my hair; he dragged me to the base barber and watched as he shaved it all off until it was even shorter than the men's regulation required. It became a monthly ritual; on the first of each and every month he would take time out of his day to make sure that I got my head buzzed again.

"I had been at Wolfsbane for about a year when the beatings started. I would get ambushed on my way home from the lab; I worked really long hours so it was always dark. I gave as good as I got, usually, but occasionally I would be caught off guard and things wouldn't go so well. It was supposed to be anonymous, but I knew who it was - McGovern couldn't help rewarding them for their services and it was more than a little obvious."

Sherlock was frowning and he couldn't help but shake his head. "Why didn't you complain? Surely there was something that could have been done."

"Because of the Work," she answered earnestly. "You don't have a monopoly of being completely devoted to your profession. And I was doing good work; I was helping people. I know that people hear "medical research" and think of torture chambers and cold examination tables and lots of blood and death, but that's not what I was doing. I ran the on base lycan hospital, which is where most lycans in the army are sent after receiving serious injuries. I was also doing research on the effects that different drugs has on different types of lycans. I was able to alter prescriptions and dosages so that there were fewer adverse reactions to medications. The survival rate was up by ten percent within the first eighteen months I was there, and by the time I left five years later it had increased by twenty five percent. I stayed because it was worth it; I loved what I was doing, more than anything else. It was my entire identity and it was worth anything. And so I couldn't complain because I couldn't risk losing the Work." She paused, her eyes begging for Sherlock to understand her. He nodded to show that he did, and she smiled brilliantly at him before continuing.

"And then Liam came. He was a nurse who had trained to be a lab assistant. He was assigned as my personal assistant; he worked in the lab and came with me on rounds. He was my best friend. He would walk me home and make sure that it was never just me, and he ended up working it out so that our beds were next to each other and that I could sleep in a corner. He made things so much better, and not just in practical things like that. He made the Work better, and I hadn't even thought that was possible. I was happy - more than happy; it was earth shattering."

"I can relate to that," Sherlock interrupted with a smile.

Jo flushed but continued speaking as if he hadn't said anything. "And then McGovern found out and he told us that he was going to get Liam transferred. I had no idea what to do, but Liam just said that he was going to have a word with him and marched straight into his office. I still don't know what Liam said, but McGovern never threatened to take him away again.

"After three years McGovern finally realized that if he really wanted to get to me, then he'd have to take my work away. He ordered me to widen my research to include Wolfsbane and it's effects on my patients' healing process. I couldn't do it - besides the fact that it was beyond illegal, there was no way that I could do that to my patients - so I went to General Leads and explained what had been happening and what McGovern had ordered me to do. Leads got him demoted and he was placed at another, less prestigious base. It ruined his career, and I guess he just wanted revenge."

The pair sat there in silence for what seemed like an eternity. Jo's mind was surprisingly calm; she felt better after explaining herself, and since Sherlock didn't seem about to run off or give her the third degree she was content to just share space with him. Sherlock, on the other hand, could barely keep his thoughts ordered enough to focus; he had questions about Liam, why she left Wolfsbane for Afghanistan, the names of everyone who had ever hurt her, but mostly he just wanted to know how she could go through all of that and still be the patient, optimistic, wonderfully loving person that she was. He wanted to tell her all of it: that she was amazing and wonderful and that he had never dreamed of finding someone as wonderful as her - someone who could understand him so completely (better even then Mycroft) and yet still be so much better than him, but the words got stuck in his throat and he ended up staying silent. Finally, Jo realized that if she didn't get up soon she was going to end up falling asleep on the couch and that really didn't sound pleasant.

"Well, I'm off to bed," she said after she had struggled to her feet. She looked down at her friend fondly. "And before you ask: no, Liam and I never slept together. He was my best friend, and that was everything; it never needed to be any more."

"Was?" Sherlock asked, hating himself for sounding the slightest bit hopeful.

She smiled at him. "My world has always revolved around someone - it's just the way I am. Liam still means more to me than I can ever hope to explain, but it's kind of hard for your world to revolve around two someones at once." Before he could get his mouth to cooperate with his brain long enough to tell her that she wasn't alone in her revolution, that she was everything to him too, and that he wouldn't want it any other was she squeezed his shoulder and continued speaking. "Goodnight Sherlock. I'll see you sometime tomorrow."

"Goodnight," he answered, looking up at her with a smile of his own. He watched her climb the stairs, still limping and with her bad arm pressed tightly against her side, and prayed to some unknown deity that she wouldn't have nightmares this time. After a few more minutes of indecision Sherlock left the couch for his own room. He pulled his oldest most comfortable set of sleep pants out of his dresser and, after searching through his closet for the sewing kit he knew was there, set to work.

Jo didn't get up till almost one the next day, which was something that she refused to feel even slightly guilty for. She stumbled to the bathroom before she was even fully awake. It took her a few minutes of fumbling to get rid of the bandages around her torso so that she could take a shower, but she wasn't too bothered by it. Her leg was almost completely better - only a slight twinge if she moved wrong but she was sure that would sort itself out soon - but her shoulder still very, very sore. She knew that if it wasn't better within the next day or so then she would have to go in and have it properly examined, but she decided not to think about that until it was absolutely necessary.

Afterwards she was in her room trying to decide whether or not it was worth it to even get dressed at all when she found as set of Sherlock's old pajamas neatly folded on her dresser; she decided that real clothes could wait until another day. The shirt was soft in the way that only came with use and age, and although Sherlock had hemmed the bottoms, they were a still a bit long for her - which was actually oddly comforting. When she finally came downstairs Sherlock was sitting at the kitchen table and examining something under his microscope. He looked up when she walked in and smiled when he saw her wearing what he had given her. She ruffled his hair fondly and he grimaced at her. She grinned and resisted the urge to laugh, happy that things seemed to be mostly back to normal.


	6. Chapter 6

Jo's shoulder was completely better within two days, and by the time Sherlock got another case it had been a little over a week and the cuts on her face had even started to heal. They walked onto the crime scene side by side, as usual, but the stares that the officers on duty gave her made Jo want to shrink back into the shadows. She soldiered on, though, and didn't let her discomfort show. When Sherlock called her over she squatted down next to him - proud of herself for hiding her twinge at the motion - before examining the body and giving cause of death. When she stood up her wince was much more noticeable and Sergeant Donovan definitely took note of it. Jo stepped aside to allow Sherlock the space he need to make his spinning deductions and Sally sidled up next to her.

"You shouldn't let him do this to you?" Sally said, her voice full of pity.

Jo sighed. "Do what?"

"You shouldn't let him push you around like this," she answered, sounding as if she were talking to a dim child. "It's bad enough that you let him drag you around at all hours of the day and night, but now you're injured! You need to take time to heal!" Jo was trying to come up with a response that was suitably scathing when Sherlock swooped in.

"I can assure you that Dr. Watson is perfectly capable of making her opinions on any variety of subjects, including our cases and her health, completely known," he bit out angrily. "Furthermore, Jo is far too resilient to allow a few cuts and bruises to stop her." He whirled away before either woman had the chance to say anything. Sally was literally sputtering, but Jo just smiled after him, recognizing it for the compliment that it was.

Donovan turned to Jo, still glaring. "You can't let him talk about you like that."

"I can if I want to," she answered, grinning from ear to ear.

The sergeant sneered at her. "God, you're as crazy as he is."

"I should hope so," Jo responded happily. Sally huffed at her before turning and stalking away; Jo barely avoided laughing out loud. She had just schooled her expression back into something more appropriate when her phone rang.

"Dr. Watson here," She answered, not bothering to check the caller id.

A familiar laugh came across the line. "So it's Doctor Watson now, is it? And I did so like the sound of Captain. It's almost a shame."

"Almost?" She asked, turning and jogging away from the crime scene. "Good to know I haven't completely disappointed you with my life choices."

He sighed. "Jo, I don't think getting shot counts as a life choice. Although Doctor Watson does have a pretty nice ring to it."

"Thank you," she answered, leaning against the wall of a nearby alleyway. "So what's up? I mean, it's not that I don't love hearing from you, but why'd you call?"

"You called me first, love," he replied, his voice much more serious.

Jo blushed and barely caught herself before she cleared her throat nervously. "Oh, that. Don't worry about that; it was just me being sentimental."

"Josephine," he snapped, his voice taking on an authority that it rarely ever did. "Don't you dare lie to me; you know that I don't believe in that no bad news from the home front bullshit, so don't tell me that that was nothing. You sounded completely wrecked. What happened?"

She sighed and bit her lip. "It was McGovern. Apparently he decided that he'd waited long enough and that it was time to make good on all those promises he made way back when. I'm fine; I've just got a few cuts and bruises and he cracked a few ribs, but I broke his wrist and then Sherlock came and got me. I was mostly just shaken up; I'm sorry I worried you."

Liam sighed. "Jo, this is one of those things that you're supposed to worry me about. I'm sorry that I wasn't there."

"And what would you have done if you were?" She asked, her voice soft. "He snuck into my flat and drugged me while I was making ice cream. There's nothing anyone could have done to stop this."

"I would have ripped his throat out," Liam growled menacingly. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly to calm himself down. "Actually, I'm surprised that your Sherlock didn't."

Jo chuckled. "I think he tried, but it was kind of hard with so many police officers around."

"Understandable I suppose." There was a commotion in the background and then he sighed. "I've got to go; you know how it is. Stay safe."

"You too," she answered. "I love you Lee."

"Love you too." There was a click and then the line went dead. She sighed and leaned her head back against the wall, closing her eyes.

She was startled a few seconds later when she heard a deep voice coming from a few feet away. "Was that Liam?" Jo opened her eyes and saw Sherlock standing there looking slightly awkward with his hands in his pockets.

She nodded. "Yeah. He was worried about me so he called to make sure I was alright."

"And are you?" Sherlock asked, studiously avoiding eye contact.

She nodded again. "Yeah, I'm fine. Now, where to next? Did you solve the case already, or are we going to be spending our evening digging through bins?"

"It was dull and simplistic, of course I solved it," he answered without heat.

She sighed heavily as if disappointed. "Damn it! And I was so looking forward to routing through all the bins of London." She bumped against his shoulder, mostly out of habit rather than fear that he wouldn't get the joke.

He smirked. "I'm sure we could still do it, if you're that disappointed."

"That's alright," she answered happily. "I don't want to ruin the special effect for later."

He bumped their shoulders again. "That's probably wise. So, Chinese?"

"Chinese sounds good," she agreed, still smiling.

They were in the cab before Sherlock spoke again. "How is Liam?" He was looking at Jo with his this-is-what-normal-people-do-please-don't-tel-me-I've-fucked-this-up expression and she couldn't help but smile reassuringly at him.

"He's good," she answered, ignoring how tight her throat felt. "I mean as good as someone can be in a war zone when almost everyone they care about it half a world away, which for Liam is remarkably good." There was a light pause and then she smiled at him again. "And he likes you very much. He thinks that you're good for me."

"Really?" Sherlock asked, shock evident in his voice. "I was under the impression that most people think I'm a bad influence, and that I'm impeding your healing process."

Jo snorted. "Well Liam knows me better than most, and he seems to think that you are exactly what I need. Jackson likes you too, in case you wanted a second opinion."

"And what's your opinion?" He was proud of himself when his voice didn't betray his nervousness.

She rolled her eyes but didn't hide her smile. "What do you think? Do you honestly think that I would still be here if I didn't think it was good for me?" He smiled and didn't answer; it was unnecessary.


	7. Chapter 7

Jo was ridiculously nervous. She was sitting in a fashionable restaurant on her lunch break and doing her best not to fiddle with her phone as she waited. She had only been there for a few minutes when she saw Jackson walk through the door. They embraced and then sat down to order. It was slightly awkward at first, but by the time they got their food they had relaxed and were bantering back and forth easily.

"I heard about what happened with McGovern," he said once there was a lull in the conversation. Jo sighed; it had been a month since the attack and she really just wanted to forget that it had happened and move on. Jack didn't wait for her to say anything before continuing. "I mean, obviously you seem pretty okay, but are you really okay or are you faking?"

She shrugged. "I'm alright. I mean, I've been better, but I've been a lot worse. I've gotten over freaking out every time someone comes up behind me, so there's that."

"That's good," he answered, smiling at her.

She sighed. "And what about you? How are you adjusting to being home?"

He shook his head. "I don't know. Some days it's great, and others I'm doing my best not to completely lose it. And sometimes I miss it, and I feel guilty for it, but sometimes I wish I was still there."

"I know what you mean," she replied. "It's not that I miss the bombs or the blood, put I miss having a purpose and knowing what I had to do and then doing it well. And I miss Pack; God I miss having a pack."

He nodded. "Definitely. Izzy helps though, and I've never needed a really big Pack, and she's more than worth giving it up. What about Sherlock? He seems to have claimed you as one of his own."

"It's complicated," she answered with a shrug. "Sometimes it seems like he has, and then he goes and does something stupid and ridiculous and I feel like I'm just as in the dark as everyone else. I'd like him to be Pack - God knows he's the closest thing I've got right now - but I don't know if I'm his. And that's one of those things that has to go both ways."

Jackson smiled at her reassuringly. "Trust me, you're his Pack. It may be hard to see when you're in the middle of it, but from an outside perspective, it's obvious. The only question is whether your his Alpha or he's yours."

Jo rolled her eyes. "Neither. We're equals. If it's his area of expertise then I take orders from him, and vice versa."

"Well that's no fun," he pouted. "What a sickeningly logical way to live your life."

She laughed. "Oh come on, you're really going to tell me that you don't defer to Isabella at least some of the time."

"Hey," he said, pointing at her in mock seriousness. "I have never claimed that Isabella was anything other than in complete control." She laughed and he quickly joined in.

"So, when's the wedding?" Jo asked once they had quieted.

Jackson practically beamed as he answered her. "Next month. Planning a wedding is surprisingly easy when it's not actually legal and you don't have many friends."

"It's good that you're so excited," she replied with a smile. "How's Isabella dealing with it all?"

He shrugged. "She's excited, mostly, but she's really stressed. Apparently something has gone wrong with her dress and she's freaking out just a little. It's actually the reason why we came into the city today. I almost feel bad for the dress maker: Isabella can be pretty terrifying when she wants to be." Jo chuckled.

"If the dress is the only thing that goes wrong then you should count yourself lucky."

He ducked his head. "Actually, we've been having trouble finding someone to actually perform the binding. Not many people are willing to bind a lycan and a human."

"I'm sorry," she answered with a sigh. "I wish things were different."

Jack looked up, forcing himself to make eye contact. "Typically, Bindings are performed by the Pack Alpha, and although I don't have a traditional pack, I do have one - our pack, your pack. We've always had an Alpha, Jo…"

She shook her head, her eyes widening. "Jack…"

He continued, ignoring her attempt at interruption. "Jo you can't deny that we're Pack; you me, Liam, Bill, Jim - we're Pack and you know it."

"Of course we are," she answered quickly.

He nodded. "And you're our Alpha; you always have been."

"Jack, I'm not…" she said, shaking her head.

He interrupted her. "Yes you are Jo. Who else would it be?"

"I don't know," she said quietly, hanging her head.

He reached across the table and grabbed her hand. "Jo, there's not anyone else. You've always been the one that held us together and kept us in line. And when you left Liam took over because he's your mate and that's how it works. Got it?" There was a slight pause before she nodded. He smiled brightly at her. "So, what do you say? Will you do it?"

"Do you really want me to perform your Binding Ceremony?" She asked, sounding skeptical.

He nodded, still smiling. "Of course I do. Isabella and I talked about it, and we both agreed that there's no one else we would rather have do it." Jo broke into a grin.

"It would be an honor," she said happily. "Thank you."

Jackson shook his head. "You don't have to thank me. You're my Alpha; this is your right." Jo squeezed his hand before they moved onto lighter subjects, like the locked room triple homicide she and Sherlock had just finished.

When Jo go home from work Sherlock looked up from the foot he was dissecting in order to perform his customary analysis of how she had spent her day. When she had first moved in, she had found this scrutiny disconcerting, but after a while she began to see it as a compliment; after all, there weren't many things that Sherlock was willing to take active notice of every day, especially not to the extent of taking time out of Work - even if it was only a minute or two. Normally, he would just nod to show that he had finished his analysis or would remark on something that he found particularly obnoxious or boring; occasionally he would ask a question if she had done something he found interesting. On this particular evening he just looked confused (which was a hard expression to recognize in the detective, because he usually hid it quite well behind a mask of arrogance). Jo took a moment to revel in the fact that she had finally done something Sherlock couldn't entirely deduce for himself (she was ignoring the fact that apparently her having lunch with a friend was so anomalous as to cause serious issue).

"Who did you have lunch with?" Sherlock finally asked, looking more than a little put out that he was unable to come up with the answer on his own. "I know it wasn't a lover because you aren't currently dating someone and you're always at least a little stressed after a first date. And it wasn't a colleague because then you would have eaten at the sandwich shop like you normally do. So who was it?"

She smiled happily at him and finally entered the kitchen. "I had lunch with Jackson. The wedding is next month, so he and Isabella had to come into the city to work out some last minute details. Isabella had to do something with her dress, so I had lunch with Jackson."

"I should have known," he replied, sounding almost bitter. "Only a good friend would have you looking so relaxed and cheerful after such a painfully dull day at work."

She started unloading her shopping bags, ignoring the fact that he had yet to go back to his foot. "Jackson invited you to the wedding; he wanted to be very clear that he was inviting you separately from me."

"Really?" He asked, sounding pleasantly surprised. "That's unexpected."

Jo shrugged. "I told you he liked you. The invitation's in my bag if you want it." Sherlock immediately picked her briefcase up off the counter and started going through it; he kept talking as he searched.

"You're happier than just a pleasant meal and a wedding invitation warrants; what else happened?"

She smiled to herself, both impressed and flattered by his deductions about her emotional state. "Jack and Isabella want me to officiate the ceremony."

Sherlock's head snapped up and he stared searchingly at her back. "But that's usually done by the Pack Alpha."

"Yes, it is," she answered simply. "Did you do anything to that beef I left in the fridge? I wanted to make a stir-fry with it." It was a painfully obvious attempt at changing the subject, but, as he often found himself doing when it came to Jo, Sherlock let the matter go, filing the information away for future reference.

"The beef is fine," he stated, sitting back down at the table with his invitation. "Did you know that you tend to cook more the closer it gets to the full moon. The Lycan Cycle starts a week from today, so we probably won't eat out again unless a particularly busy case comes up."

She hummed as she began to get out the ingredients she needed. "I hadn't noticed that my culinary habits coincided with the phases of the moon. Do you have any theories as to why that is?"

"It's probable that it's a subconscious response to the fact that you worry about me more during the full moon," he answered as he prepared the foot for storage (he knew from experience that Jo did not respond well to dissections while she was preparing food). "Although I don't know why you would worry about me more at the full mood when I'm technically at my strongest."

Jo rolled her eyes even though her friend couldn't see. "I worry because there are morons out there who don't have even a basic understanding of lycanthropy, and silver bullets aren't exactly hard to get." He hummed but didn't say anything; he did, however, smile to himself, pleased by the fact that she was willing to voice how much she cared.


	8. Chapter 8

Jo had been pulled out of bed at four in the morning in order to go to a crime scene. She didn't mind too much, though, even if she did complain. The case itself was interesting, if relatively simple in the end, and they had it wrapped up by lunch time. Jo had had to take down the murderer with a rugby tackle, which, while rather impressive, had hurt her wrist. She was just deciding that all she needed was a couple of paracetamol and to put off the blog post for a few days when Sherlock and Lestrade came walking towards her. The two men seemed to be having a serious conversation; Sherlock was actually listening, his head tilted towards Lestrade in concentration. As they got closer to Jo Lestrade handed Sherlock a piece of paper, which the detective pocketed, and then squeezed his shoulder before breaking off to go to his own car; he gave Jo a friendly wave, which she returned even though she was confused by the interaction.

"You have the rest of the day off, correct?" Sherlock asked as they walked towards the road to find a cab.

She nodded. "Yeah, I'm not scheduled at all this week. You tend to interrupt me more around the full moon, so it's not worth the trouble." He sniffed at that but didn't deny it.

"I need to go shopping," he said tonelessly.

Jo frowned. "Shopping? Why?"

"James' birthday party is tomorrow and I need to get him a gift," he answered. "You're invited as well, obviously. I thought that if you helped me pick something out then we can put both of our names on the card."

"And who is James?" She asked, her frown deepening.

Sherlock narrowly avoided rolling his eyes. "James Lestrade. Lestrade's middle child. He's turning nine next week."

"Okay," she said slowly. "Why are we invited to his birthday party?"

"Because I'm always invited to family gatherings and Lestrade thought it would be polite to invite you as well," he answered with a sigh, giving her a look that clearly said that this was her last question. She just sighed and decided to just go with it; she was sure that someone would tell her what was going on eventually.

Jo quickly decided that taking Sherlock to a toy store was a Very Bad Idea. He was easily distracted and kept finding things that he wanted to buy for himself to see if he could weaponize them. Finally, after about an hour and a half, Jo got them to leave with only a chemistry set and a box of Lego's for James. She also stopped and got wrapping paper and a funny card, both of which Sherlock had deemed unnecessary. Jo almost felt bad for Lestrade, especially when she saw the look of unholy glee Sherlock had in his eyes when they bought the Chemistry set, but she was fairly certain that a nine year-old would love it.

When they got home Sherlock left the present wrapping process to Jo and went to work on something in the kitchen. Jo had to go on a search for usable scissors and by the time she found a pair, Sherlock had to go take a shower after spilling something (Jo was determinedly not asking what) on his shirt. She had just finished wrapping the gifts when the door to the flat opened with a bang.

"God I hate that bitch!" Yelled a small, blond teenager as she stalked into the sitting room. She froze when she saw Jo. "You're not Sherlock. Where's Sherlock?"

Jo carefully stood up, not sure if she should be on her guard or not. "He's taking a shower; he should be out soon. Who are you?"

"Sophie," she answered. When Jo still looked confused she clarified. "Sophie Lestrade." Jo nodded and was about to ask if she could help her when Sherlock came sauntering in. He was wearing his traditional suit trousers and a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up; his feet were bare and his hair was still damp and even curlier than usual. Jo had to remind herself not to stare.

"I thought I heard you come in Sophie," he said with a smirk. "Although you should probably watch your language."

Sophie rolled her eyes. "You're one to talk. And the circumstances warrant cursing."

"What circumstances?" He asked, raising one eyebrow.

She huffed, rolling her eyes. "My father is married to an evil witch."

Sherlock sighed. "Soph, we've talked about this. Just because you don't like Alice doesn't mean that you can be awful about it; you're hurting your father more than you're hurting her." Sophie lowered her eyes and looked almost ashamed; after a few moments Sherlock smiled comfortingly. "So, what did she do this time?"

Her eyes lit up as she started into her rant. "It's James' birthday party. She's throwing a fit because we're having it tomorrow instead of next week. Apparently she has a hair appointment and doesn't want to reschedule it. She's even more upset because Da told her that it has to be tomorrow because James wants you to be there and his actual birthday is on the full moon. She said that it was unsafe for a lycan to be around kids. They fought and she said awful, awful things…" She trailed off, looking like she was on the verge of tears. Sherlock, much to Jo's surprise, reached out and pulled her into a hug.

"Hey, it's okay," he murmured soothingly. "People say lots of things; you just have to ignore them. It's okay."

She shook her head. "But she said…"

"It doesn't matter," he interrupted. "I'm not going anywhere; you know that right?" Sophie nodded as she pulled out of the hug. Sherlock smiled at her. "Does your father know where you are?" She shook her head sheepishly and he sighed. "Don't worry about it; I'll take care of it, as usual. You go see if there's anything you want to eat in the kitchen."

She beamed at him, smacking a kiss on his cheek. "Thank you!" She skipped happily into the kitchen. Sherlock was smiling fondly to himself as he began looking around for his phone.

"You threw it into the hallway earlier," Jo told him, feeling slightly off kilter after seeing a side of her flatmate that she had never suspected existed. He nodded at her in thanks before padding quietly out of the room. Not knowing else to do Jo started tidying up. There was obviously something she had missed about her flatmate and she wasn't quite sure how this knew information fit into what she knew about him. She jumped a few minutes later when she heard his voice behind her.

"You don't mind if Sophie spends the night, do you?" His voice was quiet and he sounded somewhere between worried and pleading. Even if she had had some objection to Sophie being there (which she honestly didn't) Jo knew that there was only one answer she should possibly give.

She shook her head, turning to face her friend. "No, I don't mind."

Sherlock practically beamed at her. "Good! We'll go for pizza tonight; it's tradition."

"Tradition?" She asked with a slight frown. "How often does she stay over?"

He shrugged. "Usually once a month or so. Lestrade and I decided that it would be best to give you time to get used to me before we sprung angry teenagers and hyperactive children on you." He paused for a moment, frowning in the direction of the kitchen, before lowering his voice even more and continuing. "Lestrade married Alice about two years ago, and she and Sophie and never got along; it seems to be getting worse though: Lestrade seems to think that she's just at that age, but I'm not so sure." He paused again, as if deciding whether or not she should be trusted with what he was going to say next. "She's a very tough girl, and it would take a lot to make her upset enough to run off without telling her Da first. I haven't seen her this distraught in years." He seemed to shake himself out of whatever dark thoughts he was in and smiled brilliantly at his friend. "She really is brilliant, though, and she won't put up with nonsense from anyone. I think you're really going to like her."

Jo couldn't help but smile. "I think I probably will." She couldn't imagine not liking someone who could get her flatmate to look so happy over something that didn't involve crime.

That evening Sherlock, Jo, and Sophie took a cab down to a pizza parlor that Sherlock and Sophie seemed very familiar with. It wasn't too far away and Jo was mostly sure that they had taken a cab strictly because Sophie didn't get to take them at home and, at fifteen when the world seemed hatefully dull, it was one of the few things that seemed to hold much interest. Still, Jo couldn't quite justify another cab, so they walked back to Baker Street. It was a nice evening and they took their time. Sherlock walked in the middle, regaling them with stories of some of his more hilarious cases.

That night Sophie offered to take the couch. Sherlock declined, saying that he wasn't planning on sleeping that night anyway. She had had a tiring day and went to bed reasonably early. Jo was in the sitting room, reading, when Sherlock came in and sat next to her on the sofa, folding his legs underneath him. He looked exhausted and Jo recognized his body language as him wanting to talk. She set aside her book and turned to face him.

"I met Lestrade five years ago," he began quietly. "I still don't know why he didn't just go home and do his best to forget about me; God knows he had enough problems of his own without taking care of a junkie. I was as high as I could be, well on my way to an overdose, and got caught up in a mess with the owners of this club I went to. I deduced that they were running a jewelry theft and smuggling ring. I was young and stupid and thought that I could handle it on my own, but it didn't end so well. Lestrade was still working his way up the ranks and he was walking by and saw them beating me in an alleyway. He managed to keep them from killing me, and I managed to convince him that I knew what I was talking about, even if I was shaking like a leaf. He brought down the ring and ended up with a promotion. I never expected to see him again, but the very next week he came looking for me. I was living on the streets, I mean I'd get a room for the night if I had pick pocked enough that day, but it wasn't much better. I was trying to get clean by then, I wasn't entirely willing to kill myself just to spite my family, but I wasn't really good at clean back then and I was too stubborn to ask for help.

"Lestrade picked me up out of the gutter, quite literally, and fed me dinner. We talked, I still don't have any idea why I decided to trust him, but I told him everything. He took me to a rehab center and helped me get settled. When I got out a month later he was there to pick me up. He told me that as long as I stayed clean, there was an extra room in his house and I could help out on some of his cases under the table.

"His wife had been dead for less than a year; they were barely staying afloat. Greg was trying to juggle his job and his family, and it really shouldn't have worked, but it really did. And I was part of it. I lived there for two and a half years, and then went to dinner every Sunday for another six months. And then he married Alice. She doesn't like me much, never has. I still go over about once a month, usually when Alice goes to visit her parents. Sophie never really liked Alice, and after the first year Alice just gave up trying to get along with her. And so Soph comes here to escape when it gets too bad."

"You don't like Alice either, do you?" She asked with a small smile.

He shrugged. "I don't like the way she treats Lestrade. She's cheating and we all know it, but he doesn't know what to do about it. He wants to make it work so that he doesn't have to put his kids through a messy divorce." He shrugged again and stared off into space.

Jo nudged his leg with her toes, grinning. "You know, I never figured you for the family type. You're full of surprises, Sherlock Holmes."

"That's the idea," he answered with another shrug.

She gave him a level look before poking him again. "You're exhausted Sherlock; you need to sleep tonight."

"I know," he answered quietly. "I'll sleep on the couch; it'll be fine."

She sighed. "You're always in a bad mood after you sleep on the couch; you know it hurts your back."

"Well what else am I supposed to do?" He asked, beginning to get agitated. "I couldn't let Sophie sleep on the couch."

"There is another bed here," she answered after a moment or two of hesitation.

Sherlock frowned at his flatmate. "What do you mean?"

Jo rolled her eyes. "I mean, that you could share mine. It's plenty big enough." She stood up and looked expectantly at her friend, who just shook his head.

"I don't want to intrude," he protested, looking almost meek.

She rolled her eyes again. "It's not intruding if I invite you. Just don't steal the blankets." She turned and started walking upstairs without waiting for a response. Sherlock internally debated following her for almost a full minute before heading upstairs himself; it was, after all, only logical.


	9. Chapter 9

Jo woke up with a heavy weight on her chest. She panicked for a moment and prepared to launch her own counterattack before she realized that it was just Sherlock and was able to calm herself down. She had always suspected that Sherlock was the snuggling type, and while it was nice to have her suspicions confirmed, she couldn't help but feel a bit smothered. She lay there for a few more minutes with Sherlock's arms tightly around her waist and his face pressed against her neck, but she soon started to feel fidgety and knew that it was time to get up. She carefully untangled herself from the bed and slipped her pillow into Sherlock's grasping arms. He hugged it tightly and she couldn't help but smile fondly at the sight.

She was just starting a pot of coffee when Sophie came in at sat down heavily at the table. She was still in her pajamas, her hair was mussed, and she had the miserable look of someone who didn't understand why she was conscious. Jo offered her a quiet good morning; she received a friendly-ish grunt in return. Jo smiled and turned to the fridge to get out the cooking supplies. Sophie's eyes followed her movements, but neither of them said anything. Finally, the coffee maker beeped and Jo turned around.

She smiled cheerfully at her guest. "Would you like a cup of coffee, or some juice? I suppose I could boil some water for tea if you want that."

"Coffee please," Sophie answered levelly. Jo recognized it for the challenge that it was and got down two mugs without comment. She set the full mug on the table along with the creamer from the fridge and sugar before turning back to her cutting board and her own coffee. She could feel the teenager's eyes sharpening to something more analytical; the feeling of being scrutinized was familiar, and Jo knew that such a visual inspection wasn't surprising coming from someone who had grown up with Sherlock. She also wasn't surprised when Sophie spoke up a few moments later.

"Those are Sherlock's clothes."

Jo nodded, not bothering to turn around. "Yes, they are."

"And he didn't sleep on the couch last night," she continued, delivering the statement without emotion.

"No, he didn't," she agreed, matching Sophie's tone.

Sophie sighed. "You can tell me if you two are sleeping together; I won't tell anyone - not even my Da."

"Sherlock and I aren't sleeping with each other," she replied, finally turning around. "Last night we shared a bed out of convenience. Sherlock isn't exactly pleasant in the morning, and I didn't quite feel up to dealing with him after a night on the couch."

She nodded slowly. "That makes sense, I suppose. Although you two do seem really close; Sherlock doesn't really let people close.

Jo shrugged. "Yeah, well, neither do I. We've both made exceptions." She turned back around to her cooking and Sophie didn't say anything else.

A few minutes later Sherlock came stumbling into the kitchen and flopped on one of the rickety chairs. He dropped his head to the tabletop with a dull thud and mumbled something intelligible. His hair was beyond messy and his ratty old t-shirt was rumbled and askew. Jo bit back a chuckle as she placed a mug of coffee in front of him. She knew why he didn't sleep on cases; the man could go strong for two days without sleep, three counting a few cat naps in cabs, but it took him almost an hour to get anywhere even approaching his usual brilliance after a full night's sleep. The doctor would never admit it out loud, but she found that particular trait rather endearing.

"You're cooking," Sherlock slurred a few minutes later, finally having deemed it appropriate to sit up in his chair.

Jo smirked at him over her shoulder. "What a stunning observation Mr. Holmes. You should be a detective." Sophie snorted but Sherlock just glared.

"You hardly ever cook breakfast," he answered, his voice gaining some clarity. "Why are you doing it now?"

She shrugged. "You're not the only one who gets bored. And besides, you told me yourself that my subconscious urge to take care of you more near the full moon manifests itself in my cooking more often." Sherlock had always hated it when Jo used his own words against him and a low growl escaped his throat. Jo couldn't help but chuckle; the man growled so often that they had ceased to be even slightly menacing after the first week.

The three of them ate breakfast, and Sophie told them about a science project she was working on for school. Afterwards, there was a scramble for the shower, which Sophie won and Jo lost. Jo ended up with a cold shower, which she really didn't mind except for the fact that it made her shoulder tight. They took a cab to Lestrade's house, which was larger than Jo had expected on a cop's salary.

"It was Greg's first wife's," Sherlock whispered in her ear. "Old family home." Jo nodded but didn't say anything.

They walked into the house without knocking and Sophie flitted off to put her backpack in her room and find her dad. Jo stayed close to Sherlock, mostly out of nervousness. It had been a long time since she had been at anything even close to a family gathering, and the fact that she didn't really know any of the family at this gathering didn't make it any less awkward. They were still in the front hall when a group of four nine year olds came thundering past. One of them, a small red headed boy with freckles broke from the pack and came barreling into Sherlock's legs; Sherlock responded by bending over so he could wrap his arms around the boy and planted a kiss on the top of his head.

"Happy birthday James." He said happily. "Are you having a good time?"

The boy nodded, stepping back so that he could show off his pirate costume, which came complete with a plastic sword and eye patch. "Yes! I'm a Pirate Captain!"

Sherlock grinned at him. "I can see that, and a fine pirate at that. Now, James, I want you to meet a friend of mine. This is Dr. Jo Watson."

"Hello Dr. Watson," James said, solemnly holding out his hand for her to shake.

Jo smiled at him as she shook his hand. "Hello Captain Lestrade; it's nice to meet you. But you can call me Jo. A pirate captain such as yourself deserves the right to use first names, don't you think."

He nodded enthusiastically, giggling. "You can call me James; I promise won't make you walk the plank. I'm going to go play now."

"Alright, have fun," Jo answered, saluting him with a look of utter seriousness. James scampered off with another grin.

Sherlock nodded towards the rest of the house. "Shall we? The front hall isn't exactly where all the excitement is."

"Sure," she agreed, ignoring how nervous she felt as they walked deeper into the house. Sherlock led her into the kitchen where he deposited the gifts on the kitchen table and found Lestrade.

Greg smiled at them, looking a bit frazzled. "I can offer you a Coke; sorry we don't have anything stronger."

"A Coke would be great," Jo answered with a smile. "I prefer to be stone cold sober when dealing with children. And Sherlock, for that matter."

He laughed and pulled cans out of the fridge for them. "I find that a shot of whiskey helps a lot with this one, actually." Sherlock glared at him, but there wasn't much heat in it and he accepted the offered drink.

"Where's Luke?" Sherlock asked, looking around.

Lestrade sighed. "His room; where else?" Sherlock nodded before whisking himself off upstairs. Jo looked at Greg questioningly and he clarified. "Luke is my youngest. He's five and painfully shy; Sherlock's one of the only people who can get him to come out of his shell." Jo hummed but before she could say anything Sherlock came back, a small dark haired boy in his arms. The boy had his face hidden in Sherlock's neck and Sherlock was murmuring something into his ear.

He turned to Jo and raised his voice a bit. "Luke, this is my friend Dr. Jo Watson. She's really nice, I promise. Can you say hello to her?" Luke shook his head and Sherlock continued patiently. "Come on Luke. I know that you'll like her. I wouldn't introduce you to someone who won't get along with you. Luke, think about it; how many people in your whole life have I asked you to meet?" There was a small pause where Luke mumbled an answer and then Sherlock nodded. "Exactly. So trust me on this, please. Jo is very nice and I know you two will be great friends. So can you please say hello." Luke slowly turned his head away from Sherlock, his big blue eyes blinking at Jo.

"Hello," he whispered, his cheeks red and blotchy.

"Hello," Jo answered with a smile that she hoped looked friendly instead of forced. "How are you today?"

The boy shrugged. "There are a lot of strangers here. They make me nervous."

"I know," she said, nodding. "Strangers make me nervous too."

Luke perked up a bit. "Really?"

Jo nodded again. "Yeah. Sometimes they make my skin crawl - always have. But the best people I've ever met have been strangers once, so they can't all be bad." Luke frowned as he nodded reluctantly. He continued to study the doctor but neither of them said anything else.

A few moments later Lestrade cleared his throat. "Hey I'm sorry about Sophie. She doesn't normally run off without telling anyone; I have no idea what could have gotten into her." Sherlock raised one eyebrow - his expression clearly said that he knew exactly what had gotten into her and Greg did too - but he didn't say anything.

"It's not a problem," Jo answered lightly. "It was actually kind of nice having her around." She felt Sherlock's gaze on her, obviously searching for any signs of deception. When he didn't find any he smiled at her and Jo easily returned it with a smile of her own.

Moments later a tall woman came walking briskly in, mumbling disparaging remarks about traffic and carrying far too many boxes of pizza in her arms. She was well dressed, her blonde hair immaculately styled even if the color was obviously out of a bottle. Her jewelry was tasteful and carefully chosen, but even Jo could see that the woman had forgotten to move her wedding ring back to the correct finger. She glared at Sherlock as she set down the boxes, but smiled as she kissed Lestrade on the cheek. Jo felt Sherlock stiffen beside her, but when she looked questioningly up at him he shook his head minutely.

Greg took a deep breath and forced a smile. "Jo Watson, I'd like you to meet my wife, Alice."

"It's nice to meet you," Jo said cheerfully, extending her hand for the other woman to shake.

Alice's eyes flitted from Jo to Sherlock and back again before gingerly taking the doctor's proffered hand. "A pleasure." Her lips curled up in distaste and she wiped her hand on her trousers as soon as their hands disconnected. Jo hadn't felt so put down in years - not even Mycroft had succeeded in doing that - and she briefly wondered how such a normal woman had succeeded with two words and a handshake; it was confusing and more than a little disconcerting. Sherlock bumped against her shoulder and the look of camaraderie that he sent her let her know that he felt the same way.

The moment quickly passed and the birthday party came trampling into the kitchen for food. Sherlock got Luke a plate before setting him back on his feet and sending him scampering for the table. The adults (and Sophie) stayed in the kitchen to eat, Sherlock picking off of Jo's plate, which earned a raised eyebrow from both Greg and Alice (Sophie had gotten used to it during her stay). Cake was had and then presents were opened. Before long Sherlock and Jo were the only guests left in the house. Luke had retreated to his room; Alice had taken her laptop upstairs; James had taken his plunder up to his room; Sherlock and Sophie were deep in conversation about how to best determine the rate of decay caused by different acids, so Jo was helping Greg clean up.

"So, I know that pirate themed parties probably aren't your idea of a good Saturday morning," Greg said with a wry smile. "But thanks for coming. It means a lot to Sherlock."

She shrugged. "It was fun. You have great kids; Sherlock turned out alright too."

"Yeah, I suppose he did," he answered, cracking a smile. "But I've never seen him quite so happy as he is with you. So thanks for that; even if you did let him buy my kid a chemistry set." Jo felt her cheeks color and coughed to hide the fact that she didn't know what to say. She put the trash bag she was holding down so that she massage her wrist, rolling her shoulder as well.

"Watson!" Sherlock barked from the kitchen. He didn't wait for a response before walking briskly towards her.

Jo turned to face him and crossed her arms over her chest. "Holmes!" He reached out and took hold of her arm with surprising gentleness.

"You're hurt," he said, frowning as he examined her wrist. "This is why you haven't written up the last case yet. How did I miss this?"

She shrugged, making no attempt to take her arm back. "It's no big deal. It'll be fine in a couple of days. Trust me, I'm a doctor."

"Your shoulder is bothering you as well," he continued, releasing her arm.

She nodded, smiling a bit. "Yeah, cold showers in the morning will do that. Just you wait, before long I'll be one of those crazy old vets who can tell the weather by her shoulder."

"I'll look forward to it," he replied, smiling at her in a way that Jo couldn't quite decipher.

Jo took a step back and checked her watch. "I picked up an extra shift tonight - to make up for the time I'm taking off next month. I'd like to go home and change first, so we should probably leave pretty soon."

"Alright," Sherlock agreed. "But we should say goodbye first." She agreed and let him lead the way upstairs.

James was busy sorting through all of his gifts, but he did give each of them a hug and was obviously excited by Sherlock's promise to come back and teach him proper chemistry. Sophie was doing her homework - Jo offered to help her with the Shakespeare she was currently struggling through if she brought it by the flat sometime. Luke was in his room, hunched over his desk. Jo expected to be ignored, so she hung back while Sherlock went to say goodbye. To her surprise, however, Luke jumped up and ran over to her, shoving a piece of paper in her hands before hiding his face in her legs. She instinctively used one hand to cup the back of his head as she looked at the picture he had given her. It was of her, dressed in a white lab coat with a stethoscope, Sherlock, in his traditional Belstaff Coat, and Luke, dressed as he was that day.

Jo smiled and ruffled his hair fondly. "Thank you Luke; I love it."

"Really?" Luke asked, tilting his head back just a bit so he could peak up at her.

She nodded. "Really. I'll keep it forever."

"Do you want to play with me? I have blocks," he said, looking up at her hopefully.

It broke her heart to have to shake her head. "I'm sorry sweetie, but I can't. I have to work tonight and I need to go home to get ready first. But I'm sure we can play some other time. I happen to love blocks, and doctors just don't get to play with them enough."

"Do you promise you'll come back?" He asked, looking as if he was fighting back tears.

She nodded, smiling again. "I promise." She and Sherlock quickly finished their goodbyes and then got into the cab Sherlock had called.


	10. Chapter 10

Jo wasn't even the tiniest bit surprised to come home to a flat full of policemen on a "drugs bust." She knew that that probably meant she should rethink some of her life choices, but she was too tired to care just then. She wearily climbed the seventeen steps up to her flat to find Lestrade sitting in Sherlock's chair, smirking, Sherlock sulking on the couch, and about ten officers going through their things - very thoroughly. Jo's shoulders tensed, but she forced herself to relax. She tightened her grip on her shopping bags before walking the rest of the way inside and taking a seat next to Sherlock. Her friend seemed just as tense as she was and she resisted the urge to reach out and comfort him.

"You went shopping," the detective announced moments later, his frown deepening. Jo nodded but refrained from giving her usual sarcastic retort. Her friend continued, his voice still harsh. "Why did you go shopping?"

"Because I have a job that I get paid for and thus am allowed to spend my money every now and then," she answered, her tone matching his. He raised his eyebrows and she sighed, giving him the answer he was really looking for. "I needed a dress to wear to the wedding. Surprisingly, my wardrobe doesn't actually include much evening wear."

He looked into the bag and sniffed. "This hardly counts as evening wear."

"Well pardon me if its not bespoke," Jo bit out, her temper rising.

Sherlock's eyes snapped up to her and his gaze softened. "I didn't mean that it isn't nice. I'm sure it will look lovely." He sounded awkward and he quickly shoved the bag back towards Jo, but she smiled at his efforts nonetheless.

She turned to look at Lestrade. "Alright, what has he done this time. And remember, I've been gone since seven this morning, so if you're going to be arresting anyone I had nothing to do with it."

Sherlock scowled and the DI laughed. "Nobody's getting arrested here - at least I hadn't planned on arresting anyone. Sherlock is just being stubborn about telling us who killed Kate Bennett."

"I told you," Sherlock growled, glaring at Lestrade, "I don't know who killed Miss Bennett. I have my suspicions, yes, but they have yet to be proven. I will tell you as soon as the results of my research come in."

Lestrade sighed. "And when will that be?"

"Soon," he replied still frowning. Just then, his mobile beeped with a text. After reading it he grinned and looked up at the DI. "Patience is a virtue, Lestrade. If you had only waited I would have happily told you that the brother did it, and this all would have been avoided. Now get out of my flat!" Lestrade eyed the detective warily, but after a few moments he gave the order for his team to leave; they were gone within five minutes.

Jo sighed and finally relaxed into the couch. "Why do they have to make such a mess?" Sherlock shrugged and reached for her second bag.

"Why did you buy a scrapbook?" He asked, frowning again. "Please tell me you're not going to start keeping newspaper clippings about our cases."

She glared at him and snatched the bag back. "It's none of your damn business! And, contrary to popular opinion, not everything in my life revolves around you." She quickly stood up and made her way upstairs, well aware that she was overreacting, but unwilling to stop it.

"You're upset with me," Sherlock said once she made it to the stairs. His voice was unsure and it was almost a question, but Jo didn't answer - she didn't trust herself not to say something hurtful.

An hour later Jo was sitting cross legged on her bed, her new scrapbooking material spread out in front of her. She wasn't really surprised when her door opened, but she didn't make any sign of acknowledgment as Sherlock stepped inside her room. She had long ago let go of any lingering concepts of private property or personal space when it came to her flatmate, but that didn't mean that she was going to actively encourage the behaviour. He held a thick binder in his hands, and when she didn't protest he cautiously came and sat at the end of her bed, facing his friend.

"I didn't mean to upset you earlier," he said quietly. "I was just teasing." Most people assumed that Sherlock never apologized, but that was blatantly false. True, his apologies were often a bit odd, but they were almost always there and Jo appreciated the effort.

She shrugged, still not looking up at him. "I overreacted, again. I've always had a short temper."

"It's worse when you're stressed," he replied, accepting her implicit apology. "Why are you stressed?"

Jo sighed. "It was just a long day with lots of screaming children and angry parents. And shopping. I really do hate shopping."

"Explains why you waited until the week before we leave to buy a dress," he said, smiling a bit as he cataloged the new information. He looked at what she was doing with the scrapbook and smiled. "Luke will definitely appreciate your efforts at organization." Jo smiled as well. Luke had been sending her pictures ever since James' birthday party, and she had finally decided that she needed a way to ensure their safety.

"I promised him that I'd keep them," she explained quietly. "I didn't want them to get crumpled or lost."

Sherlock smiled reassuringly at her. "It'll mean a lot to him. Luke doesn't generally take to people like he's apparently taken to you." Jo blushed and focused her eyes on the binder resting in his lap.

"What's that?" She asked, indicating what she meant with a nod of her head.

Sherlock held it out to her, looking slightly nervous. "A peace offering." She took it carefully and laid it down in front of her to open it. She smiled and looked up at him, her eyes lighting up.

"You honestly do keep a scrapbook of all your cases," she said, being careful to keep her voice neutral so that it wouldn't be construed as offensive.

He shrugged, looking down at her bedspread as if it were the most interesting thing in the room. "I wanted to make sure that I could remember them all."

"This is great," she said honestly. "It's really fantastic."

He shrugged again. "A bit sentimental, I suppose."

"A bit of sentiment is a good thing," she answered, looking up at him.

He cracked a smile. "I suppose it is."


	11. Chapter 11

The hotel Jo had booked for her and Sherlock had given them adjoining rooms. When Jo had called to make their reservations the clerk had asked if that was what she wanted and she would never really understand why she said yes. It had, however, turned out to be an advantage and Jo made a mental note that the next time they went anywhere, they really needed adjoining rooms. The wedding was being held in Devon, and since Jo had to attend several other events besides the ceremony itself, she and Sherlock had decided to stay for the week as a sort of vacation. Surprisingly, Sherlock not only behaved himself but actually seemed to be having a good time. They took a lot of walks, slept in, ate good food, went sightseeing, and generally just behaved like normal tourists (even if they did manage to solve a case or two for the local constabulary). They kept the door between their rooms open until they went to bed and usually ordered breakfast up to one room or the other. They had had a busy string of cases right before they left and even Sherlock had to admit that the peace was a bit nice.

On the morning of the wedding Jo was still half asleep when Sherlock came in and sat on the end of the bed, giving her foot a squeeze. It was a system they had worked out soon after Jo had moved into Baker Street - if Sherlock needed to wake Jo up, he would just touch her foot; she would wake up and he wouldn't get punched in the face.

Jo sat up and smiled blearily at him. "Good morning."

"Good morning," he answered, smiling as well. "I know it's earlier than you had planned on getting up, but I was wondering if you wanted to go down for breakfast and then go for a walk."

She nodded. "Yeah okay, that sounds nice. Just let me get dressed. I'll shower when we get back." Sherlock flashed her a brilliant smile before bounding out of her room and closing the door behind him.

The hotel restaurant was actually very good, but Jo was too nervous to eat much. Sherlock frowned but didn't say anything; Jo did her best to ignore how carefully he was watching her. They walked in companionable silence, Sherlock leading them down small side streets and alleyways. Jo had no idea where they were going, but the sun was warm and they had plenty of time, so she wasn't really worried. They wandered in and out of several shops, just browsing, and Sherlock told her about some of his earliest cases. For lunch Sherlock took them to a small out of the way diner. The food was good, and Jo ate more than she had at breakfast, but she was still only picking at her meal.

"Why aren't you eating?" Sherlock finally asked, frowning at her as if she were a puzzle that wasn't behaving as it should.

Jo shrugged. "Just not hungry I suppose. You should be familiar with the sensation."

He narrowed his eyes at her. "And yet you tell me that I have to eat everyday, Doctor."

"It's one day, Sherlock," she snapped defensively. "I'm not going off food for a whole week or anything. I'll be fine." He hummed but didn't say anything else. He did, however, keep studying her.

After a few moments Sherlock spoke again. "You normally skip meals only when you're ill or nervous. You're obviously not ill, so that must mean that your nervous. The wedding?"

Jo sighed. "I'm not really fond of public speaking. Jack and Isabella are only going to have one wedding. I don't want to screw it up for them."

"But the rehearsal went fine last night," he protested kindly.

She sighed again. "Yes, but there weren't any people there, I didn't have to really go through anything, and I wasn't wearing a dress!"

"What does wearing a dress have to do with anything?" He asked, obviously confused.

She rolled her eyes. "Do you have any idea how long it's been since I wore a dress? You've been in my closet, did I even own a dress until last week?"

"I still don't see the problem," he answered, still frowning. "Dresses are quite comfortable."

Jo's eyebrows shot up. "Oh really? And how would you know? Do you wear them often?"

"It was for a case," he replied evenly - and he would have been the picture of nonchalance if it wasn't for the blush spreading across his cheeks.

She smirked at him. "Of course it was."

"It was!" He protested, some of his distress seeping into his voice.

She continued smirking even as she held her hands up in mock surrender. "Alright fine. It's not like I care if you get off on wearing women's clothing or not. I told you when I moved in that it was all fine." Sherlock sighed and realized that this was one of those arguments that he would never win, simply because Jo was being ridiculous. He still threw one of his chips at her in retaliation, though. Jo just laughed and popped it in her mouth before picking up her fork and eating her own food - her nervousness having miraculously evaporated.

After lunch the pair wandered around for a bit longer before going beck to their hotel to get ready. Jo had showered, actually blow drying and styling her hair for once, miraculously managed to get her make up right on the first try, and got dressed. It hadn't taken her nearly as long to get ready as she had expected it to, so she sat on the edge of her bed and tried to calm her nerves as she waited. It wasn't too much later that there was a knock on the door joining their two rooms and Sherlock entered. He was wearing a white dress shirt and black suit trousers of a finer cut and fabric than usual. There was a black silk tie draped over his shoulders and he held one end in each of his hands. He gazed down at the fabric as he spoke, sounding almost ashamed.

"Could you tie this for me? It never turns out quite right when I do it."

Jo smiled as she got up. "The great Sherlock Holmes - bested by a tie. I never thought that someone as obviously public school as you would be brought to his knees by a simple Half-Windsor."

"I have not been brought to my knees," Sherlock sniffed. "I simply deleted the information as it was not pertinent to my life choices. Besides, ties remind me of Mycroft."

She laughed. "Of course they do."

"What makes you think that I went to public school?" He asked, fixing his eyes on a point somewhere over his friend's left shoulder.

She rolled her eyes. "Come now Sherlock, it really is obvious. I may not be a genius, but I'm not blind."

"But why is it obvious?" He pressed.

Jo shrugged, taking the silk out of his hands. "Well several things, really. But a lot of it is in the way you carry yourself, your grooming habits, the way you dress, the way you speak - stuff like that."

"But that can be affected. I could be faking," he protested.

She nodded. "You could, but I doubt it. I live with you; I've seen you when you first wake up and when you're so tired you need help up the stairs. Even you can't fake it that well. And those are only the superficial reasons."

"What else?" He asked, sounding genuinely interested.

"Well," she began somewhat nervously, "you're obviously extremely well educated, and you could have done it yourself, but you don't really act like you did."

He tilted his head to the side. "Why not? How do I act?"

"There's your books, for example," she answered as she finished knotting his tie. "They're well used, but not particularly well kept. You value them, but you didn't have to fight to get them. You've had some of them for years, probably since before you left for Uni, and some of them are quite rare."

Sherlock smiled at her, a genuinely delighted expression that made his eyes light up. "That's actually quite brilliant." She just shrugged, her cheeks coloring slightly.

Jo took a step back and sighed. "Well, you look very nice; skinnier than usual - which I might actually hate you for at the moment."

"I don't know why you would," he answered. "I mean you look fine - more than fine actually. Good. You look good."

She laughed. "I can see why you don't get many dates with lines like that. But thank you." She looked down and smoothed her dress nervously; Sherlock still looked like he was studying her and she had to remind herself not to fidget.

Sherlock had to remind himself not to touch. Jo's dress came down to right above her knees and was black with ruching around the waist. There was a four inch wide strap on her right shoulder, but her left was bare, showing off her scar. He had seen it before, but it never ceased to fascinate him. The front was neat and puckered, and although he couldn't see it just then he knew that the back was a completely different story. The bullet had shattered on impact and the fragments had ravaged the back of her shoulder. He was slightly surprised that she was willing to wear something that showed her wound so completely, but after a second thought he recognized that she had never been particularly shy about her scars. She was wearing a pair of plain black flats that simultaneously seemed fitting and completely out of character compared to her usual trainers or boots.

After a few moments she cleared her throat and looked up at him again. "Well, I suppose we had better go. It really wouldn't do for me to be late."

"Right," he answered, pulling himself out of his thoughts. "I'll just get my jacket." He quickly retreated back to his own room to finish dressing. Jo followed him shortly after, having added a dark green cardigan, and they left - their shoulders brushing in the elevator down.


	12. Chapter 12

The binding ceremony was a fairly simple affair, which was pretty much what Sherlock had been expecting. It was tasteful though, and Sherlock was impressed with Isabella's planning and decorating skills. He was more interested, however, in observing how Jo interacted with everyone else. He had originally intended to stay in the background and out of everyone's way. He was flattered that Jackson and Isabella had invited him personally, but he didn't know anyone there other than his flatmate and he had no intention of making her stay by his side all evening when there were other people that she would rather be with; he didn't want to hold her back just because he was mildly uncomfortable. But he had (once again) miscalculated when it came to his friend because, apparently, Jo wasn't going to let him slip into the background. She kept him by her side the entire time, introducing him to everyone she spoke to and keeping her hand on his arm more often then not (and Sherlock wasn't quite sure when touching became so easy between them, but for once in his life he decided not to question it).

Watching Jo interact with those around her was fascinating to say the least. She easily slipped into the role of Pack Alpha and showed no hesitation when faced with the traditional lycan greeting, clasping the newcomer's arm while she leaned in and sniffed the bared necks of wolves who somehow ranked lower than the human. Sherlock himself had never been overly comfortable with typical pack dynamics, and he was surprised that Jo managed to seem so natural in a situation in which she should have been anything but. As he watched her he couldn't help but think that she should have been born a Lycan; it was incredibly unfair that someone who looked more at home with wolves than anywhere else should be separated from them by biology.

After the requisite pre-ceremony mingling and introductions were over Jo went to take her place in the procession and Sherlock found his seat in the audience. The ceremony was fairly typical. Jo came in first, entering from the side. She watched as both sets of parents came in and nodded with they bowed in a sign of came in the bridal party, who were there to act as witnesses, and they also bowed before taking their seats in the front row next to the parents. Finally Jack and Izzy came in, walking down the aisle hand in hand. When they reached the front they both knelt, averted their eyes, and tilted their heads to the left, completely exposing their necks. Jo clasped each one by the shoulders, first Jackson and then Isabella, gripping them as she leaned down to nuzzle briefly behind the ear. When she straightened she smiled and the couple and they rose gracefully to their feet. After that the ceremony was much like any human wedding: objections were called for (Sherlock wondered what would happen if anyone ever dared to object), vows were given, and rings were exchanged. Finally Jo picked up the piece of red silk that had been resting on a small table to her left. The fabric was about two inches wide and a foot and a half long. She wrapped it around the couple's wrists several times before tying it off and binding them together. She hooked her fingers into the fabric and used it to raise their arms.

"Now, here in front of your pack, your families, your friends, and everyone else who matters, I pronounce you Bonded Mates; may not even death part you," she said, her voice loud and clear and appropriately solemn. The she broke into a smile. "Congratulations. You may kiss your Mate." The couple kiss and the audience applauded; even Sherlock couldn't help a small smile.

The bride and groom walked swiftly down the aisle, and everyone else swiftly followed, heading over to the reception hall. Jackson and Isabella stood at the entrance of the dinning hall for a reception line, and after hugging them both Jo led Sherlock to a table in the back corner where, at her request, they had both been seated along with a few of her less rowdy army buddies. It was an open bar, so Jo went and fetched a couple of drinks for her and Sherlock while people were still trickling into the room. When she got back, Sherlock was in the middle of a conversation with Brandon Granger where Brandon was being as loud as he could and positively looming over the detective and Sherlock was doing his level best to answer in only monosyllables. She set the drinks on the table and put her hand on Sherlock's shoulder.

"Oi, Granger," she barked, looking up at the six foot seven Sergent. "Leave off him. And what the hell are you doing you're whole I'm-big-and-intimidating routine for? There is no way that Sherlock's been here anywhere near long enough to piss you off enough to warrant that."

Granger cracked a grin. "Oh I was just teasing, Watson. You can't really expect to show up with some new guy and for us to just leave him alone."

"That's exactly what I expect you to do," she answered, her hand tightening on Sherlock's shoulder. "This is a wedding; it's not being ruined just because there are too many alphas in one room. No one is going to turn this into some god-awful dominance thing, because we all know how that ends." Granger was visibly cowed and took a purposeful step back.

"Look, I'm sorry Jo; I was just having a bit of fun," he said sheepishly. "Please don't be mad." Jo relaxed immediately, her grip on Sherlock loosening.

She smiled at him. "No one's mad. I was just laying out some ground rules. Now, stop bugging us and get back to that lovely mate of yours; you'll have to introduce me to her later."

"Of course I will. It was good to see you again Captain," he kissed her cheek and she squeezed his shoulder and then he was gone and Sherlock and Jo were alone.

Jo sat down and took a sip of her beer. "Sorry about that. Brandon means well, and he's really sweet normally - barely even an alpha really - it's just not often that I bring someone new around; some of the guys won't really know how to react."

"Don't worry about it," he answered, reaching for his scotch. "He was more annoying than anything else."

"Yeah, well, don't get him really worked up," she said with a chuckle. "He's one of the best men you can have on your side in a brawl."

Sherlock raised one eye brow. "Do a lot of brawling, Captain?" Jo laughed, tipping her head back and closing her eyes.

"I've done my fair share," she said once she had finished. "Especially after I've had a pint or two too many." He looked at her pint warily and she laughed again. "Don't worry, I don't plan on drinking nearly that much tonight."

He sighed and cracked a half smile. "That's a shame, really. It would make for an interesting sociological experiment."

"We'll have to go out sometime," she answered, grinning. "It'll be great. I'll be picking fights and you'll be trying to keep me from getting killed."

He quirked another eyebrow, smirking. "And that's different from what we normally do how?"

"Oh don't even," she answered, sitting up straighter. "You're the one who regularly taunts serial killers because he's bored."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "What about last week with Richard Collins? He was in the middle of a psychotic break, and you decided to purposefully antagonize him. He almost killed you!"

"He had a gun!" She protested loudly.

He broke into a grin. "You're not really helping prove your point." She flapped her hand at him dismissively and reached for her pint again. He sighed happily and began scanning the room.

"Why are you sitting down here?" Sherlock asked after a few moments of comfortable silence. "Shouldn't you be sitting up with the wedding party?"

Jo shrugged. "It's probably traditional or something, but it's not like I could expect you to sit up in front of everyone and I wasn't going to abandon you to a room where you didn't know anyone."

"Oh. Well thanks for that then," he replied, clearing his throat awkwardly.

She shrugged again. "It's nothing really. Certainly nothing worth thanking me for." She didn't say that there was no one she would rather spend the evening with, and Sherlock didn't say that he'd never get used to the fact that she didn't take every opportunity she could to get rid of him. They slipped back into comfortable silence, glad for the companionship they shared.

By the time that Jo finished her beer she had shed her cardigan, leaving her shoulders bare. While she never really felt self conscious about her scars, this was one of the few places where she didn't worry at all about people's reactions. Sherlock could read that ease in her body language, and resolved to behave himself for as long as she wanted to stay if for no other reason than he didn't know if he would ever get the chance to observe her in a similar situation again. They were still the only ones at their table, but there were still plenty of people milling about in groups so Sherlock didn't hold out much hope that it would remain that way. Sure enough, a few minutes later a stocky brunette came up to the table holding two glasses of what Sherlock was pretty sure was gin. He set them down on the table and Jo jumped up so that she could throw her arms around his shoulders; she laughed when he lifted her up off the ground and spun her around. When he finally put her down they kept their arms around each other even as she turned back to Sherlock.

"Sherlock, I'd like you to meet Second Lieutenant Bill Murray," she said, grinning widely. "He was one of my MP's in Afghanistan. There's no man you'd rather have in a firefight."

Sherlock stood up and offered his hand. "It's a pleasure to meet you." The name definitely sounded familiar, but he couldn't quite place it so he thought it safer not to mention anything.

Bill grinned and shook his hand. "Same here. I've been wanting to meet you since Cap moved in."

"Really? Why?" He asked, visibly taken aback.

Murray chuckled. "You got her to sound like her again. We all figure that you must be one hell of a man to have managed that." Sherlock felt his cheeks get a bit warm at that and he was thankful for the dimly lit room - even if he didn't know what to say. Thankfully Jo cut in herself.

"Alright, that's enough of that," she said easily. "You all can swap embarrassing stories about me as soon as I walk away, but save it until then. Now, I'm pretty sure that I saw you bring over something to drink, so let's get to it."

Murray nodded and retrieved the glasses, handing one of them to her. "We never got to have our gin after that last mission, and I figured better late than never, right." Jo smiled but Sherlock could tell that it was forced.

"Thanks," she said, looking down at the liquid thoughtfully. They clinked glasses and then both threw back their drinks in one go with a solemnity that the detective didn't quite understand. Once the glasses were empty Murray took Jo's from her and shuddered as if he was trying to shake off a bad memory.

He forced a smile. "Well, now that that's done, the boys are all together in the back if you wanted to join us."

Jo nodded, her smile a bit more genuine. "Of course, we'll be right there. Let me just find some bread or something so I don't have two drinks on an empty stomach."

"Great." Bill beamed at her. "Everyone's dying to see you." His gaze flicked to her scarred shoulder for just a moment before nodding at Sherlock and turning on his heel and walking away. Jo watched him go before turning back to Sherlock.

"Sorry about that," she said, sounding almost sheepish. "That was just a, um, tradition." At Sherlock's questioning look she continued. "I was usually the field medic for scouting missions and such, and after every mission Bill and I would get together and drink gin - awful stuff really, but it was one of the few things we could get consistently. The last mission I ran with Bill was when I got shot, so we never got to have our drink. This was just setting things right."

"Oh, well, good for you," he said, not really knowing what else he should say.

She shrugged, looking a bit uncomfortable. "I got shot in the middle of a battle, and I ended up falling down a hill. Because of where I had fallen, rescue was not only highly ill-advised but also damned near impossible. We still had radio contact and Bill, the loyal moron that he is, told me that he was going to come and get me. He ignored every direct order that I could scream at him to do it, too. If he hadn't done that - if he had waited until it was safe like he was supposed to - then I would have bled out. Hell, I almost did despite everything he did; I flat lined on the operating table. I was dead for forty-five seconds before they were able to resuscitate me. Before I knew it I was back in England and my career was over."

"I'm sorry," Sherlock murmured, surprised by how emotional he sounded.

Jo shook herself out of the past and smiled up at him. "It's fine; everything worked out for the best in the end." The fondness in her eyes as she said that made Sherlock's heart stutter. Before he could ask if getting shot was really worth everything they had she continued speaking. "Anyway, I just wanted you to hear that from me first in case anyone says anything about it. They shouldn't, but you never know. Now, why don't we go over there so I can introduce you. From what I hear they're all dying to meet you."

"Lead they way," he answered quietly, setting down the drink he had barely touched.

Sherlock had never been comfortable with pack dynamics, not even as a child, and it had only gotten worse as he had gotten older. He didn't particularly want to lead a pack, and he certainly didn't want to submit to take a submissive role in one, but more than that, he simply didn't understand them. He didn't see the purpose of all the posturing that was seemingly necessary (although he was more than capable of participating in it when he needed to), he definitely wasn't comfortable with the close physical proximity to any number of other people, and he was disconcerted, to say the least, by the playful, off-handed violence that came hand in hand with being in a pack. Jo, on the other hand, looked as if being part of a pack was the most natural thing in the world. She easily assumed her position at the head of the group and Sherlock was surprised (and more than a little awed) at how everyone in the group seemed to settle when she joined them.

There were five of them (not counting Jo and Sherlock (or Jackson as he and Isabella had yet to make their grand entrance)), six if you counted Bill's mate. Bill was too Jo's left, next to him was his mate, Angela, followed by Brandon, then came Nicholas and William (who were fraternal twins), followed by Eli, and finally Jim. Sherlock closed the circle by standing at Jo's right. For the most part it was a lively group, full of the easy, jostling, organic physicality that Sherlock had never seen outside of a pack. They swapped stories, often talking over one another, usually about something that had happened while they were at home, but occasionally they recalled some prank that had been pulled in Afghanistan or something that had happened while on leave in some exotic place. The twins were by far the quietest members of the group (apart from Sherlock who didn't feel the need to speak at all); Nic's silence stemmed from an obvious shyness, but William's appeared to be much more antagonistic.

Jo was the only one that no one even attempted to interrupt, but she seemed mostly content to just listen to everyone else's stories, occasionally interjecting with the way she remembered something happening or, better yet, with a story of her own of something ridiculous she and Sherlock had done. Even when he was making disparaging comments about her blog, Sherlock couldn't deny that Jo was an excellent story teller, and her skills were undeniably greater when she was speaking rather than writing. She spoke with her hands, punctuating her point with decisive movements and drawing everyone in. Her eyes sparkled and danced and she had a wide smile that didn't seem to fade; she looked so happy that Sherlock couldn't help but hang off her every word.

A little while after Jackson and Isabella made their grand entrance, Jackson joined their group, inserting himself effortlessly between Jim and Sherlock. He joined the conversation seamlessly, picking up the thread of their stories and adding his own without skipping a beat. Jo seemed to relax even more with his arrival, and Sherlock wouldn't deny that it was nice to have someone else he had actually met before in the group. Even so, he was still more than a little uncomfortable.

This was very obviously Jo's world and Sherlock couldn't help but feel as if he didn't belong; he had nothing to add to the conversation and most members of the group ignored him after giving him a wary once over. Only Jack and William paid any real attention to him - Jack giving him a friendly smile every now and then, and William looking at him with open hostility. But every time Sherlock though about pulling away from the group or became too uncomfortable, Jo would smile up at him reassuringly and place her hand on his arm, giving it a gentle squeeze. The simple action settled him in a way that he hadn't experienced since leaving home. Even as a child Sherlock had been markedly different from his peers; he saw too much, knew too much, and said too much. His mother, as well as the other adults in the Pack, did their best to try and curb his less desirable personality traits (the list of undesirable traits was constantly growing and seemed to encapsulate the boy's entire personality), but Sherlock was already strong willed and stubborn and he refused to allow himself to be changed to fit the whims of others. This refusal to conform led him to a form of self-imposed isolation, and he spent most of his time buried in one book or another, ignoring everyone else as much as he possibly could. It was still too much, however, and every month or so the world would become too overwhelming and Sherlock would suffer from something akin to a panic attack caused by sensory overload. He would hyper-ventilate, which was often accompanied by tears and huge, racking sobs that shook his entire body; he would also get awful migraines and muscle spasms. If he wasn't calmed down within the first hour of these episodes, he would become to tense to make the transformation to wolf form, which only exacerbated the situation. At times like that, the only one who was able to reach the boy was his father.

Siger Holmes was one of the most submissive Betas Sherlock had ever encountered - his son had never once seen him stand up to an Alpha, even an alpha child - but when his youngest became so overwhelmed that he couldn't calm down, Siger would grab him and pull him into his lap and physically held him still. He would place one hand over the back of Sherlock's neck, gently squeezing in the typical show of dominance. The pair would sit silently for hours until Sherlock had calmed down enough to be able to function. When he got to be too old to be properly manhandled, Siger would pull him onto the nearest couch so that Sherlock could rest his head in his father's lap. The detective hadn't felt that level of peace since he had left home, but he settling presence of Jo's hand on his arm came close.

Jo had just touched Sherlock's arm again, drawing him back into the conversation when William raised his eyebrows and looked between the two of them. "So what's this? You two seem very cozy."

"What do you mean?" Jo asked, her posture straightening into something far less relaxed.

William rolled his eyes with a sneer. "You know exactly what I mean. You bring in some new guy, you track where he is, ad you've placed him in the position of your mate. What? Did you finally get tired of Liam and go out and find a new fuck buddy?" Sherlock tensed, realizing for the first time that he was indeed standing where Jo's mate should have been. Jo grabbed his arm again before he had the chance to remove himself.

"What does it matter to you?" She asked, her voice challenging and dangerous. "Are you jealous? Would you like a chance at it?" He opened his mouth to answer, but she just steamrolled over him, not giving him the chance to speak. "We could go out back for a nice quick fuck. Would that make you feel better?" Sherlock shifted uncomfortably, unsure of what Jo wanted him to do; William seemed to be equally at a loss and when he didn't immediately respond she continued, her voice even harder than before. "Now if we're quite done with that, I think you should leave until you can behave yourself." William looked like he was about to argue, but after a moment or two he stalked away. An oppressive silence fell over the group despite the fact that everyone had relaxed a bit with Will's exit.

Finally Jack spoke up quietly. "I think that they're about to start serving the appetizers; maybe we should all go find our seats."

"That's a good idea,' Jo answered with a warm smile. "It was great to see you all again, but we are actually here for a wedding, not ridiculous power plays." Everyone agreed and they quickly disbanded. Jo pulled Jackson aside before he could get too far away, and although Sherlock couldn't hear exactly what she was saying, he was fairly certain that she was apologizing for what had happened. Jack shook his head, whispering something in her ear that made her laugh. She kissed his cheek and they parted ways.

She and Sherlock were heading back to their table when Nicholas stopped them. "I'm really sorry about William. He doesn't always think about what he says before he says it."

Jo smiled kindly and reached up to place her hand over the nape of his neck. "Don't worry about it. You don't have to apologize for your brother."

"You deserve more respect than he gives you," he said quietly, his eyes fixed on the ground.

She squeezed his neck lightly. "And you have always shown me that respect. It is not your responsibility to make him show proper submission. IF I wanted to make him submit, I would. Don't worry about it. I'll catch up with you later." She leaned up and kissed his cheek before pulling her hand back. Nic mumbled a quick goodbye and went to find his table. Finally, it was just the two of them; although Sherlock refused to admit that he was obviously more relaxed that way.


	13. Chapter 13

Sherlock watched Jo interact with the others seated at their table and couldn't help but notice that even if she wasn't as comfortable with them as she was with her pack, she was more at ease with them than Sherlock had ever seen her, with the obvious exceptions of Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, and himself. Even so, she kept sending him wary sidelong glances as if she were expecting him to either bolt for the door or say something devastatingly insightful. Instead, Sherlock was in the middle of a surprisingly interesting conversation with one of their table-mates about the meaning of various tattoos in different countries. He tried to give her reassuring smiles when he caught her looking, but those had never been his strong suit and he couldn't be sure that he had succeeded. After dinner but before they cut the cake there was a small break and Jo and Sherlock were once again alone at their table.

"Having a good time?" Jo asked, smiling at him.

Sherlock nodded, smiling back. "Surprisingly, yes. How about you? Are you enjoying yourself?"

"I am," she answered simply. "But I would like to apologize for what happened with William. I should have known better than to drop you into that situation and expect him to behave himself."

He shook his head. "You can't be expected to have complete control over everyone in your pack; that's just unrealistic."

"But I should have seen this coming," she protested. "Will has never really responded well to new-comers — especially if they're placed in a higher position than him. I should have been prepared for him to try something; we're actually pretty lucky that he didn't lunge for anyone's throat."

The detective gave her a little smirk. "You don't sound very fond of him."

"I'm not," she answered with a shrug. "The only reason any of us even put up with him is Nic."

"What do you mean?" He asked, turning to face his friend more fully.

Jo sighed, "The lines between Lycan Classification aren't nearly as black and white as most people seem to think they are. I mean, yes, there are tests you can run that will tell you genetically which classification someone is, but there are some individuals that display the traits of a classification they don't technically belong to. Nicholas is one of those individuals; he is technically a Beta but often presents as an Omega. William is also a Beta, but he prefers to be more dominant. Because Nic is so passive, he has always relied heavily on his brother. Unfortunately Will has taken advantage of this dependence. When they showed up at Argentum, our base in Afghanistan, Nic was barely able to function separately from his brother. It was awful; he was more like a kicked dog than a man. It took me weeks to even convince him to talk to me. It took months to get him comfortable enough to join the pack, and he never would have managed it at all if we hadn't accepted William too." She turned to look at the were the twins were sitting: William was glaring into the middle distance but Nic was laughing quietly at something Bill Murray had said, looking very reserved. "Hopefully one day he'll manage to get out from under his brother's thumb."

"But until he does you'll be there when he needs you," Sherlock said knowingly once it became clear that she was done speaking.

She smiled. "Of course, he's in my pack."

There was a moment of silence before Sherlock asked, "So if William doesn't enjoy being submissive, then how did you convince him to join your pack?"

"Let's just say that I have my ways," she answered with a smirk.

"Jo," he needled, more than a little curious.

She sighed again, her smirk looking a bit more forced. "I actually did let him push me up against a wall for a quickie once. And then it was easy to get him to follow me; I guess he hasn't quite got over the fact that it was just a one off."

Sherlock gaped at her. "What, really?"

"Don't look so appalled," she snapped, her body language closing up defensively.

"It just seems out of character," he replied quickly.

She shrugged. "You have to use what skills you have at your disposal. I'm not a Lycan; I don't smell right, I can't Change, and I'm not physically strong enough to assert my dominance. So occasionally I have to use some less than traditional methods to gain loyalty."

"Like sex," he said, unable to keep the skepticism out of his voice.

Jo bristled even further. "How many times have I heard you say that sex dulls the mind and makes already overly sentimental fools even more sentimental and easily manipulated. You're not allowed to judge me for acting upon and utilizing the same facts that you constantly bemoan. And it's not like you don't do the same thing to solve your cases."

"I do not sleep with people to solve my cases," he interjected, sounding genuinely offended.

"I know that", she said with a sigh. "I didn't mean it to sound like that. I just meant that you observe people and then use that knowledge to solve cases, often manipulating stimuli in order to garner desired reactions. All I'm saying is that I've done the same thing with sex in order to assert my dominance over specific individuals in certain situations."

"But you're not queer," he protested, still sounding confused.

"No, I'm not," she agreed. "But I'm not exactly falling over myself with attraction to William, either." Sherlock nodded to show that he understood but didn't know what to say. After a moment of silence Jo continued. "I'd appreciate it if you didn't go spreading that little piece of information around; not many people are as understanding as you."

He gave her a withering look. "Who am I going to tell? You're the one with the blog."

She rolled her eyes. "You have a website. And I am far more discrete about what I put on the internet than you are. I've never used my blog to arrange a secret meeting with a deranged, psychopathic criminal-mastermind."

"That was one time!" He protested, battling back a smile. "And you're never going to let me live it down, are you?"

Jo didn't' bother fighting her smile. "It was a memorable night. And you don't give me very many opportunities to hold things over your head; I have to make good use of the few that I have." He gave her one of his amused half smiles but didn't say anything before they both turned their attention to Jackson and Isabella, who were ready to cut the cake.

After the cake had been eaten and the toasts had been given, the dance floor was opened up. Jo had no shortage of partners, dancing with both the bride and groom as well as many of the other guests. Sherlock, on the other hand, was coaxed into standing up with Isabella, but he wasn't even approached after that. He amused himself thoroughly by watching Jo dance. She looked more carefree and comfortable than Sherlock had ever seen her while in physical contact with anyone, including himself; he spent a fairly significant portion of his energy trying to stamp down his surprisingly strong feelings of jealousy about that. After about an hour he could tell that Jo was getting tired, so he met her at the edge of the dance floor with a drink.

She smiled at him as she accepted it. "Thank you. I hope you haven't been feeling too abandoned."

"Not at all," he replied, taking a drink from his own glass. "It's been a great opportunity to observe Lycans' reaction to pack-like stimuli in a distinctly non-pack oriented situation."

Jo smiled. "Is that Sherlock-speak for you enjoyed watching people dance?" Sherlock huffed and rolled his eyes but didn't deny it. Before they had the chance to continue their conversation, Isabella came up to them, Jackson trailing behind her. Jo turned to greet her with a smile, but before she could say anything, Isabella dropped to her knees, clasping her hands nervously in front of her.

"Captain Watson," she said, her voice calm and steady, "I would like to formally request a position in your pack. I know that I'm only human, but it's not exactly a traditional pack."

"Isabella," Jo said breathlessly, handing her glass off to Sherlock, "this is unnecessary. You're Jackson's mate; we'll be there for you regardless of whether or not you join the pack on your own."

The woman on her knees nodded. "I know, but Jack is my mate, and I need to be a part of his family — his pack. And I know what this means; I'm not naive. I know what Pack means. It means doing anything for your packmates, protecting them, going to any lengths when they call you. And it means that I would owe my allegiance to you. I know and understand all of this and I am fully prepared for the consequences of this decision. Please Jo, you won't regret it. I will be just as loyal to you as anyone of your men."

Jo took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "If you're sure that you want to do this, then I certainly have no objection."

"I'm sure," she answered, loud enough for the gathered crowd to hear.

Jo nodded. "Then Isabella Swift, I welcome you wholeheartedly and without reservation into my Pack." Isabella bared her neck and Jo leaned down to bite at the juncture where her neck met her shoulder. Isabella gasped and then cried out as Jo bit down hard enough to draw blood. Jo carefully licked away the blood before accepting the napkin Sherlock offered her and pressing it against the wound.

"Wouldn't want to stain your dress," Jo quipped, offering a hand to help Isabella off her knees. "Welcome to the Pack.

Isabella beamed. "Thank you."

"Come on Love," Jason said, stepping forward and wrapping his arm around his mate's waist, "let's go find a bandage for your neck." He nodded at Jo, smiling. "Thank you, Captain." She returned his nod and his smile but didn't say anything before the happy couple left in search of a med-kit.

Jo turned back to Sherlock with a smile. "Well that was unexpected. Thanks for holding my drink." Sherlock handed her glass back with a strange look on his face. "What?" Jo asked, almost frowning.

"You have blood in your teeth," he answered, still looking vaguely disgusted.

"Oh, sorry." She took a large drink and swirled it around in her mouth to get rid of the blood. "Better?"

Sherlock nodded, not saying anything and still looking rather repulsed. Jo nodded slowly and took another drink. The pair headed back to their table so Jo could rest her feet, still maintaining their silence. Neither one of them really understood what exactly had put Sherlock off and they had come to some sort of silent agreement not to discuss it.

The rest of the evening passed with relative ease, with Jo continuing to dance every now and then and Sherlock continuing to watch from his seat, his unexplained discomfort from earlier having dissipated. The party was winding down and Jo was once again sitting beside her friend. Eli was watching her from across the room, again, and Sherlock finally decided to say something about it.

"He wants to take you home tonight," he said, nodding at the soldier. "Or back to his hotel room, more accurately."

Jo nodded. "I know. But I'm not interested."

"Because you're not queer," he replied, acknowledging, if only to himself, that he was fast developing a fixation on that particular personality trait of his flatmate's.

She rolled her eyes. "Because I know better than to screw with my Pack's dynamics." Sherlock nodded as if he understood. Jo smiled brightly. "Come on 'Lock, dance with me, just this once. I've danced with everybody else and you haven't stood up with anyone."

"That's not true," he protested, even as he got to his feet. "I danced with Isabella." Jo rolled her eyes but stayed quiet as she accepted his offered hand.

The DJ was conveniently playing a slow song, which worked well for Sherlock since he hadn't actually danced to anything else while sober and had no intention of rectifying this ever, let alone in a room full of mostly strangers. He let Jo lead him onto the dance floor and tried not to flinch when she pulled him closer. He tentatively placed one hand on her waist, still holding onto her hand with his left. She gripped his shoulder with her free hand and they both tried to pretend that it wasn't even the slightest bit awkward.

"Thank you for coming with me," Jo said after a few moments of tense silence.

Sherlock shrugged. "It's no problem. You'd do the same for me. This is what friends do for each other, isn't it?"

"Yeah, it is," Jo agreed. "But it's more painful for you than it is for most people, and I just want you to know that I appreciate the effort that you've gone to to be nice today."

He quirked a smile. "Well, I know that you've been looking forward to this, and, contrary to popular opinion, I don't actually want to ruin everything good in your life."

"I know," she replied. "That doesn't mean that it doesn't take effort for you to put up with people in a decidedly social situation." Sherlock just hummed and forced himself not to flinch or pull away when Jo leaned in even closer and rested her head on his shoulder. After a moment's hesitation, he let go of her hand in order to wrap his arm around her shoulders, curling his fingers around her left shoulder and covering her scar with his palm. They continued to sway in silence, comfortably wrapped in each other's arms. Sherlock had no idea what was going through Jo's head, but he couldn't help but pray to every probably-false-deity who might-or-might-not possibly be listening that Jo wouldn't be able to tell just how hard his heart was pounding. After a few more moments he took a chance and pulled her even closer against him; he was rewarded when Jo nuzzled into him even further.

When the song ended they didn't pull apart immediately. Instead, they slowly separated, letting their hands drag ever so slightly as they pulled away. Jo cleared her throat and turned to look around the room. Sherlock couldn't be sure because of the dim lighting, but he thought he saw her blushing before she turned away.

"Thank you for dancing with me," she said quietly, facing him again.

"Anytime," Sherlock answered, briefly hoping that he didn't sound too eager.

Jo smiled at him. "I'll keep that in mind. Now, just give me a few minutes to say goodbye and we can go."

He nodded. "Alright, I'll come with you. It would only be polite for me to say goodbye to the happy couple. After all, they did actually invite me." Jo smiled and led the way.

They made their rounds and then Jo retrieved her things. They were walking towards the back door when they were intercepted by William. He stood in front of them, blocking their path with his arms folded over his chest. Jo sighed and widened her stance to something more easily defensible.

"William get out of the way," she demanded. "I have neither the time nor the patience for your games."

William rolled his eyes. "Jo, this has nothing to do with you."

"Get out of the way," she said again, her voice hardening even further. "I won't ask you again."

He shook his head. "This is between me and him. He's not part of your pack; you have no right to get involved."

"He may not be," she said dangerously, "but you are and I'm ordering you to stand down!"

Jo saw William tense only moments before he lunged for Sherlock. She intercepted him and spun him around into an open space. William growled and Sherlock was worried that he would make The Change, but, instead, he just lunged at Jo. They sparred for a few minutes before Jo was able to subdue him, pinning him to the ground with his arm twisted behind his back.

"Are you done now?" She asked, her tone making it clear that any answer other than 'yes' would be highly inadvisable. After a few moments, William nodded, still glowering. She slowly let him go and he jumped to his feet.

"You don't have any right!" he yelled, turning red in the face.

Jo glared at him. "I have every right! I am your Alpha and you disobeyed a direct order. I let you off easy; you should count yourself lucky."

"I don't have to put up with this," he pretested, flicking his eyes towards the door.

She crossed her arms over her chest. "Then leave; no one's stopping you. But know that if you walk out now, you won't be welcome back. This is not the first time you've challenged me. I will not tolerate this constant undermining of my authority."

William hesitated for just a moment before turning towards the door. "Come on Nic. We're leaving."

Nic, who had been watching the whole altercation, froze like a deer in the headlights. "W-will, I'm not so sure about this. Maybe we should just calm down."

"No," his brother yelled, "I'm not going to play the lap dog for that halfie-queer!"

Jo turned to Nic, her voice calm. "Look, Nic I'm not going to make you choose between me and your brother. You have been nothing but respectful to me from the moment we met. My ultimatum doesn't extend to you."

There was a long pause before Nic took a step closer to Jo. "You've been very good to me; even before I was one of yours. I'm not going to walk out on you."

"Nicholas! Stop screwing around!" William yelled. "We're leaving." He grabbed for his brother's arm, but Nic pulled away. The twins stared at each other for a few tense moments before William huffed and stormed out.

Jo reached out and clasped Nic's shoulder. "Thank you Nic; I know how hard that must have been for you."

Nic shrugged and ducked his head. "I told you, you've been very good to me; the same can't be said of William. I think it's time that I started living my own life."

"Well if you need anything, anything at all," Jo said with a smile, "just let me know. I'll always be here for you." Nic nodded and returned her smile when she kissed his cheek. When she and Sherlock left, Nic was being taken aside by Bill.

That night after they had finally retreated to their own rooms, Sherlock lay awake in his own room, staring at the ceiling. After about an hour and a half he gave up and decided that since Jo was the root of his current bout of insomnia, he might feel better if he could see her. And so he carefully opened the door separating their two rooms and crept silently to Jo's bedside. He sat cross-legged on the floor by her head and tried to take deep, silent breaths. It wasn't too long, however, until Jo started stirring.

"'Lock, that you?" she slurred, sounding slightly worried and very sleepy.

He nodded even though she couldn't see him. "Yeah, it's me. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to disturb you." He moved to get up but Jo dropped her hand to his shoulder.

"It's fine." She sounded like she was waking herself up, which never took very long if she hadn't been drugged. "What's up? Something's bothering you."

He sighed. "It's fine; I was just thinking too hard — working myself in circles."

"You tend to do that when you don't think out loud," she said, amusement obvious in her voice. "Come on, use me as a sit-in for your skull. I'm awake anyway. Do you want me to turn on the light?"

Sherlock shook his head. "No, it's fine; I don't need it."

"Alright then," she said, sounding fully awake now. "What's got that brain of yours ticking into over-drive?" Sherlock honestly wasn't sure what to say and so he stayed quiet while he tried to figure it out, going through everything that had happened that day to try and see what was most relevant to their current situation. Jo, who was used to such lapses in conversation, just stayed quiet and still, trying to focus on not falling asleep again.

Finally, after what seemed like an age, Sherlock cleared his throat. "Earlier, when you were talking to William, you said that I wasn't part of your pack."

"Yes, I did," she said quietly, for once instantly understanding where Sherlock was going with his line of thought. "Because you're not. It wasn't a comment on how much I care about you; you don't want to be part of my pack."

He leaned his head back against the side of the bed. "How do you know that? We've never even talked about it before."

"We don't have to talk about it," she said with a small huff of laughter. "Sherlock, you're as queer as it gets; you don't like packs. You have no desire to be submissive to any Alpha, and I don't relish the thought of making you. Sherlock, don't be ridiculous; this is what kept you awake?"

He shrugged. "This is why I don't like pack-situations. They make everyone overly sentimental and illogical."

"Everyone? Even you?" She asked, holding back her laughter.

Sherlock snorted, ignoring her obvious sarcasm. "Even I am not immune to biology, which is something you never seem to tire of telling me."

"I know," she said happily. "I just wanted to hear you say if for once." Her friend hummed but didn't answer, so after a minute or two she asked, "Was there anything else?"

He shook his head. "No, you can go back to sleep now. I'm just going to sit here for a while. Your breathing provides adequate background noise for thinking." She hummed and let herself begin to fall back into sleep. Her breathing evened out and he was fairly certain that she was asleep again when she broke the silence.

"Sherlock, you know that you're not part of my pack because I'm part of yours, right?" She was slurring and sounded half asleep, but she was definitely sincere.

Sherlock allowed himself a private smile. "Really? You want to be part of my pack?"

"Sure, why wouldn't I?" She said, dropping her hand to his shoulder. "There's no place I'd rather be."

He snorted. "Come on Jo, there's no need for exaggeration. We both know that you never wanted to come back to London. You've made do, but surely it's not ideal."

Jo sighed. "Sherlock, it's never been ideal. I'm a human leading a pack comprised of mostly alphas, We've never been anything other than patched together, and I love them, I really do, but it's exhausting."

"And I'm not exhausting?" He asked tilting his head back to look at her. "You'd be the first person to think so."

She laughed. "Oh you're exhausting in a whole different way. But it's not the same. With you I don't have to worry about posturing or any of that; it wouldn't work on you even if I tried. And there's no ridiculous power struggles; we're all equal in our own special way. I like your pack."

"But I don't have a pack," Sherlock protested. "Not a real one."

She squeezed his shoulder. "Sherlock, of course you have a pack. It just so happens that most of us happen to be human. There's no need for you to deny it out of sheer stubbornness."

"I suppose I can't argue with that," he replied. "But can I ask you something?"

She nodded. "Yeah, of course. What is it?"

"It's about Liam," he warned cautiously. "I know that you said that you and he were never together, but today it seemed like people were talking about you two like you were mates."

Jo sighed. "It's complicated. You've heard about Secondary Mates, right?" When he nodded she continued. "Well that's what Liam and I are. It's purely platonic and he has a lovely mate, Ryan, waiting for him to come home. I was just a placeholder, and it helped ward off any suitors if it looked like I had a mate; it made for a much more stable pack dynamic if no one was vying for the position."

"That makes sense," he answered slowly, getting only a hum in reply.

They fell silent again and this time Jo really did get back to sleep, her hand still holding on to his shoulder. Sherlock stayed seated by her bed for another hour or so, contemplating the confusing social dilemmas that inevitably arose from inserting humans into Packs, before finally getting up and returning to his own room for some much needed rest.


	14. Chapter 14

When Sherlock woke up the next morning there was dead silence coming from Jo's room. Assuming that his friend was still sleeping, he quietly went about his morning routine, showering, shaving, and getting dressed before checking his website to see if anything interesting had popped up; there hadn't. At nine he decided to go and wake Jo up, knowing that sleeping in any later would mess up her sleep schedule. To his surprise, however, he found her bed empty and already made, a note sitting on the pillow.

Woke up early and decided to go for a walk.  
I'll meet you in the dinning room for  
breakfast at 9:30  
—JW

Sherlock smiled to himself and decided to go down to breakfast early: the hotel provided copies of the London Times and served very good coffee. At nine thirty precisely, Jo walked into the dinning room, her cheeks slightly flushed from the exertion of what was probably a rather brisk walk. He had positioned himself so that he would be able to see her when she came in but didn't waive her over as she scanned the room. The doctor found him soon enough and took her seat across from him with a smile.

"Anything interesting?" She asked, nodding to his paper.

He took his head, folding the paper and handing it to her. "Nothing at all. Here, have your way with the sports section."

"Thank you," she answered, briefly scanning the headlines before looking at the menu. A few minutes later the waitress came by and Jo ordered for them both, silencing her companion with a look when he opened his mouth to protest that he wasn't hungry.

As they waited for their orders to arrive, Jo read the paper, occasionally peering over the top edge to examine her companion, who was staring out the window to his left and fidgeting with his napkin. It was obvious that the impending Moon Cycle was affecting more than he would like to admit; the metal id tags prominently displayed on his chest, instead of safely hidden away under his shirt as usual, were a clear sign to everyone who wasn't blind that he would be affected by the cycle that started the following night. As soon as she caught herself staring at the tags she snapped her eyes back to the paper and forced herself not to look up again.

Sherlock forced himself not to fuss with his id tags. Normally, he managed to forget that he wore them at all, but for five days a month, the three days of the Moon Cycle as well as the day preceding and following the Cycle, he was forced to put them on display for everyone to see. He knew that the effect was strictly psychological, but the little pieces of metal always felt uncomfortably heavy for those five days. He often considered just ignoring the law requiring him to display his tags, but he knew that, while briefly satisfying, it would be more of a hassle than it was worth. Interestingly enough, their presence seemed to bother Jo almost as much as they did him. He didn't know why this was and was and was decidedly unwilling to question her about it out of what he was able to acknowledge, even if only to himself, was simple cowardice.

He was actually rather grateful when the waitress arrived with their orders, if for no other reason than that it gave him something to focus on other than the conundrum that was his flatmate. Jo put aside her paper and smiled at Sherlock before turning to her meal. After a moment of hesitation he did the same, confident that she wasn't expecting him to make small-talk.

Half-way through their meal Jo cleared her throat. "So, the Moon Cycle starts tomorrow." Sherlock nodded and she continued, having learned the hard way that it really wasn't productive to point out that she was stating the painfully obvious. "I was thinking that you might want to stay here. Staying cooped up in our flat for three days can't be particularly pleasant. I was thinking that maybe we could go camping; the fresh air might do us some good."

"Camping, really?" He asked, raising an eyebrow.

She shrugged. "Yeah, why not? Camping's fun. And we'd be far enough away from everyone that you wouldn't be disturbed. There's a shop in town that rents equipment and the truck we've rented would definitely be sufficient for our purposes."

"And what in all of our association together makes you think that camping would be something that I enjoy?" He asked with a slight sneer. Surprisingly, the soldier seemed to fold in on herself.

"Never mind then," she mumbled. "It was just an idea. I'll go book our train tickets after we finish breakfast." Surprised by the strength of her disappointment, Sherlock quickly reconsidered.

He cleared his throat. "Actually, no. Camping sounds like the perfect opportunity to practice survival skills. You never know when we'll be left stranded somewhere and have to fend for ourselves."

It was Jo's turn to raise her eyebrows. "Sherlock, I'm not talking about survival skills; I'm talking about camping with a tent and sleeping pads and lots of supplies."

"Yes, well, since I've never actually been camping," Sherlock said, fidgeting with his napkin again, "I thought it would be best if we started small."

She broke into a small smile. "Alright then. I thought we could leave tomorrow morning so that we would have plenty time to set up camp before moonrise."

"I shall defer to your expertise," he said, resuming his meal. Jo just widened her smile.

The next morning they ate and checked out early so that they could make it to their campsite by noon. Jo had called ahead and reserved the most secluded site she could find and wanted to make sure that they got an early start because she was almost positive that trying to set up camp with Sherlock was going to be nothing short of a trial by fire. Sure enough, an hour into the enterprise she was trying to remember all of the reasons bashing Sherlock over the head with a blunt object was a bad idea that she would regret very, very much.

"Sherlock!" She yelled, turning to face him. "I need you to help me set up the tent."

"I think you've got the situation well in hand," he answered from a canvas chair, the erection of which had been his single contribution to the set up effort.

She closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. "Putting up the tent is a two man job, and I swear to god if you don't get up and start helping me, I will stab you in the fleshy part of your bum with a tent pole!"

"There's no need to get snippy," he replied with a heavy sigh, pushing himself out of his seat. "When we moved in together you failed to warn me of your violent tendencies."

She rolled her eyes. "And you failed to warn me that random body parts would appear in my refrigerator. We all have our complaints."

Sherlock gave her a withering look. "Well, this is decidedly your area of expertise, instruct me." Jo heaved another sigh and bit back a smile before beginning to give him the necessary directions.

Once they had finally finished setting up camp, and had eaten the sandwiches Jo had brought for lunch, Sherlock returned to what he claimed as his seat and glowered into the currently barren fire pit. Jo retrieved the novel she was currently reading and pulled her chair up beside him, determined to ignore the detective's foul mood. After half an hour of pointed sighs and even more pointed avoidance of of eye contact, however, she gave up that plan as a lost cause.

"What is it Sherlock?" She finally asked, narrowly avoiding rolling her eyes at his latest melodramatic sigh.

"I'm bored," he declared, throwing his hands up for emphasis. "Bored, bored, bored, bored, Bored! I don't know what we're going to do stuck out here for three days!"

Jo carefully replaced her bookmark and stood up. "Well it's a good thing I have prepared for this contingency. I know that it is incredibly unlikely that you would ever become bored, but I do like to be prepared for all possible eventualities."

"Is that one of those soldier things?" Sherlock asked as she walked to the truck.

"You would be surprised at how many of the skills I learned in the military are necessary for surviving life with you," she replied, her voice muffled from being inside the car.

He rolled his eyes. "Surprising, yes. Once could almost think that my brother had designed the program with that specific purpose in mind."

"You're sounding a bit paranoid there Sherlock," she answered amidst the rustling of a plastic bag and the slamming of a car door. "And before you start accusing me of being part of a massive government conspiracy, spearheaded by your brother, designed to find you a friend, I would like to remind you that you should be nice to me because I buy you presents." She punctuated her statement by placing the bag in his lap. "Now there are only four of them, so remember to pace yourself."

He frowned, looking into the bag. "There are more than four books in here."

"I'm sure you'll be able to account for the discrepancy," she said with a smile, moving to retake her seat. Sherlock hummed, already engrossed in his examination.

Instead of pulling out of all of the books at once, rifling through them, and then paying closer attention to each individual specimen, Sherlock focused all of his attention on one book at a time, setting it aside before moving on to retrieve the next book from the bag for inspection. Jo had opened her book up to where she had left off, but despite her efforts to appear nonchalant, she was watching her friend with obvious amusement. She saw him look at, smell, and even lick the nineteenth century tome on deductive reasoning, the early twentieth century French advanced chemistry textbook, and a recent compilation of various conspiracy theories about the JFK assassination. Finally, he pulled out the fourth book. She wasn't exactly sure what it was, but the owner of the used book store she found it in had told her that it was a mid-nineteenth century discussion of medical diagnostic techniques in Russia; it was, naturally, written entirely in Russian. She had bought him a nice notebook, a couple of legal pads, and a Russian-English dictionary to aid in the translation.

"Jo," he said, looking over at her after finishing his examination, "this is amazing."

She shrugged. "I picked them all up in a used book store on my walk yesterday morning. I thought they might keep you occupied at least until we get back to London. And I know that you had been looking for an opportunity to increase your Russian language skills; I figured this was easier than moving to Moscow for six to eight weeks."

"This is by far one of the best gifts I've ever received," he said with a genuine smile. "And it isn't even Christmas!"

"Well you're welcome," Jo replied, turning back to her book to try and hide her blush. Sherlock, after a few moment's deliberation, decided to save the translation 'til last and started with the book on deductive reasoning.

That evening Jo built a fire and made them a (surprisingly appetizing, in Sherlock's opinion) dinner of baked potatoes and chili. And while Jo did get him to admit that the meal was more than edible, despite his original, and very vocal, doubts on the matter, she failed to get him to assist in the clean up operation. After she finished washing up, and had set up a lantern for when it got dark, she returned to her chair and her book. Sherlock was just finishing his first book and was steadily becoming more and more restless; Jo waited until he had progressed from restless to downright twitchy before speaking up.

"Moonrise will be coming soon," she said, not looking up from her book.

Sherlock practically growled. "Obviously! I know that it's difficult for you, but please at least try to refrain from stating the painfully obvious." She just hummed in response, knowing better than to try and engage him in conversation when he was this agitated. They both fell back into silence.

Normally, Sherlock handled his monthly compulsory Change with calm grace, viewing it mostly as an inconvenient loss of three nights a month. But occasionally, and for reasons unknown to Jo, the Change would become something offensive to him, causing him to become agitated and snappish, often lashing out at whoever was closest to him at the moment. She probably would have been more concerned by the behavioral changes if Sherlock hadn't showed every sign of being aware of them and dealing with them on his own, usually by locking himself away until he was in a more amicable mood.

Sherlock sighed a few minutes later, snapping his book closed. "I suppose I should just change now - make it easier for everyone. I'll only be a few moments." Jo just nodded, knowing that he hadn't been looking for any more of a response than that.

He entered their tent without another word, reappearing barefoot and in his boxer shorts, and then disappearing into the woods behind their campsite. Jo waited patiently and sure enough, about five minutes later a large black wolf came trotting into camp holding a pair of dark blue pants in his mouth. He loped up to her and dropped them in her lap.

"Thank you," she said wryly. "Just what I've always wanted." She patted him absently on the head on her way to the tent. She stuffed Holmes' pants into his bag, changed into a thicker jumper, and retrieved a small rectangle box from her own bag. She returned to her chair and wasn't at all surprised when Sherlock rested his head on her knee. She obliged him by scratching behind his ears; they both pretended that his tail didn't even twitch, let alone wag enthusiastically. The peace only lasted for a few minutes before Sherlock started getting antsy again.

Jo sighed and waived him off. "Go on, frolic in the woods. The whole point of this was for you to burn off excess energy. I'll be here when you get back." He eyed her for a moment before nosing at her hand and running off. She smiled to herself for a moment before picking up her book and settling in.

Sherlock still hadn't come back by the time Jo went to bed, so she left the door to the tent unzipped enough that Sherlock would be able to get in on his own. Sure enough, she was woken up around midnight by Sherlock coming into the tent. She sat up to close the tent as her friend nudged his sleeping pad closer to hers.

She sighed and allowed him to snuggle up to her. "You're always so cuddly when you're fuzzy." He huffed before licking into her ear in retaliation. She rolled her eyes and pushed his head away even as she wrapped her arm around his shoulders, quickly going back to sleep.

When Sherlock woke up the next morning Jo was already up. He quickly got dressed and went out to see what she was up to. Jo had reignited the fire and was in the process of preparing them a full breakfast. She smiled at him and pointed him to the coffee she had made but didn't say anything.

"How are you so chipper in the morning? It's not decent," he said, flopping himself down at the picnic table where Jo was working.

She rolled her eyes. "Since when have you ever given a damn about decent. And I'm not chipper, you're just even more moody than usual in the morning."

"Whatever you say," he answered, his voice rumbling from the back of his throat. "Please tell me that there's a way to get a real shower out here."

Jo nodded. "Yeah, just follow the road; it's not far. The tokens are in the glove compartment."

"Tokens" He asked incredulously.

She rolled her eyes. "Yes, tokens. It's coin operated."

"That is barbaric," he sneered, standing up and heading to the car to get his things together; Jo just rolled her eyes.

"Jo," Sherlock called a minute or so later, "why is there a package of tennis balls in the glove compartment?"

Jo smirked. "I thought that if you got bored we could play fetch." Moments later a tennis ball hit the back of her head; she just laughed. "Don't take forever, breakfast'll be ready in about twenty."

Sherlock got back just as the food finished cooking, his towel wrapped around his neck. "That was beyond tedious."

Jo rolled her eyes. "You are currently growing mold samples under our bathroom sink. You have long since forfeited your right to be picky."

"I know what type of mold I'm growing," he answered. "I have no idea what was growing in that miserable building."

She smiled at him as she dished up their plates. "Here you go. And no complaining; you need to eat a real meal after frolicking through the forest for half the night."

"I don't frolic," he pouted, poking at his food. "And I don't pout, so you can stop smirking." Jo just laughed.

A little while after breakfast was finished and cleaned up Jo set aside her book and got her friend's attention. "There's a lake about a mile and a half away. I thought that we could pack a lunch and spend the afternoon down there swimming and such. It's plenty warm enough."

"I don't even own a pair of swim trunks, let alone have them with me," he answered without looking up. "I'm afraid that you'll be forced to go without me."

She grinned at him. "I had a feeling you might say that, which is why I pick up a pair of trunks for you before we left town."

"I suppose I don't have any objections then," he said, sounding less than enthused.

Jo sighed, her smile fading. "Don't feel obligated; we don't have to go."

"Nonsense," he replied, his eyes still on his book. "You wish to go and I have no objections. I just hope that you remembered to get sunscreen."

She rolled her eyes. "No, I thought we'd run an experiment on how long it takes you to turn completely red."

"SPF 50, then." He smirked and briefly glanced up to make sure she was smiling again; she was.

Jo put together their lunch and supplies in a rucksack before changing into her new swimsuit, covering it with a tank-top and shorts. Sherlock had put on his trunks and a t-shirt while she was packing, so he took the time she was dressing to put his current book (the JFK conspiracy theories) and a couple of tennis balls in the pack. Jo emerged from the tent and easily shouldered the bag before leading the way to the lake. The trail she took was too narrow for them to walk side by side, and since Jo was the one who knew where they were going, Sherlock fell into step behind her. They walked in silence, and Sherlock had to keep reminding himself to look anywhere but at Jo and her legs.

When they reached the lake, Jo set the backpack on the ground before tossing a tube of sunscreen to Sherlock, who chuckled and pulled off his shirt to apply the cream. When he looked up, Jo had stripped as well and was folding her clothes. He froze; she was wearing a dark green bikini and had pulled her hair back into a ponytail. Living together, Sherlock had obviously seen his friend less than fully clothed, but there had never been quite as much skin involved; he was briefly terrified that he would start drooling like an imbecile, but he managed to jump start his brain fairly quickly.

"Do you want me to do your back?" She asked, straightening up.

He nodded jerkily and turned around. "Yeah, sure. Thanks." He forced himself not to clench his fists and to take deep, even breaths.

When she finished, she tapped him on the shoulder with the tube and stepped back. "Alright, you are sun-proof for the next forty-five minutes or so."

"Thanks," he answered, turning around. "Would you like me to do you?" He winced. "I mean your back. Would you like me to put some sunscreen on your back?"

Jo chuckled. "No thanks, the sun will do me good. We're not all as vampiric as you."

"Vampires don't exist," Sherlock scoffed.

She rolled her eyes. "So says the werewolf. There was a time, you know, when Lycans were considered to be just as fictional as vampires."

"I still find the comparison offensive." He sniffed and then had to force himself not to join in when his friend started laughing.

"Well what are you going to do about it?" She teased, slowly backing away. "I don't know if you can let such an offensive comparison slide." They held eye contact and Sherlock couldn't help but smile at how mischievous she looked; moments later she turned and bolted for the water. He laughed before chasing after her. He was up to his waist before he realized just how cold the water was, gasping and pulling his arms into his chest.

He glared at Jo. "Bloody buggering Christ that's cold!"

"You'll get used to it." She laughed, resisting the urge to point out just how high and breathy his voice had gotten. "Suck it up; you'll be fine: a little cold water never hurt anyone."

Sherlock didn't stop glowering. "You're a doctor! Haven't you ever heard of hypothermia?"

Jo rolled her eyes. "You're not going to get hypothermia; stop being so melodramatic."

"If I die, it's your fault," he answered petulantly.

She sighed. "I'm not going to let you die. You just have to acclimatize to the temperature." Before he had the chance to respond she shoved him hard enough for him to lose his balance and fall. He grabbed onto her arms, though, pulling her down with him.

Jo surfaced laughing. "Do you feel better now?"

"No, now I'm wet as well as cold," he grumbled, pushing his hair out of his face. "But I suppose I'll live." Jo laughed again.

Later, after they had finished swimming and eaten lunch, Jo stretched out in the sun with her book. Sherlock found a shady spot that wasn't too far away and tried to focus on his own book; unsurprisingly, his eyes kept wandering to where Jo was laying. He could see all of her scars: the remnants of her childhood car accident, the bullet wound on her shoulder, the knife scars McGovern left, the claw marks on her side, and what he was fairly sure was a bite mark on her hip. She was beautiful, her scars only proving her strength and increasing her appeal. Sherlock didn't notice how long he had been staring until Jo pointed it out.

"If you're so interested you should just ask. It'll be far more productive, I promise," she said, propping herself up on her elbows.

He paused, briefly wondering whether she was talking about her scars or the fact that he desperately wanted to touch them; he decided to play it safe. "Where did you get those scars?" He got up and moved closer so that they could have a conversation at a normal volume.

"Which ones? I've got plenty," she answered with a grin.

He pointed at her side. "Those. The uh…" He trailed off, unsure of what would be the tactful way to describe the scars.

"The claw marks?" She asked, sitting up completely.

He nodded, clearing his throat nervously. "Yeah, those."

"I got them in Afghanistan," she began, keeping her voice purposefully level. "It was the Blue Moon and I had just gotten off a double shift with eight straight hours of surgery. I was exhausted and I collapsed into bed as soon as I could. Leo hadn't quite got off duty yet, so I was alone. We had only been in Afghanistan for a few months at that point and Leo and I kept pretty much to ourselves, so I didn't really know anyone else yet. There was this guy, Aiden Fritz, who worked directly under me; he didn't even like taking orders from a woman, let alone a human; we had already clashed a few times, but I outranked him so I wasn't too worried about it. Apparently he was more disgruntled than I thought, and he came in and grabbed me while I was sleeping." She paused for breath and Sherlock wanted to stop her from continuing; he could see where her story was going and it quite honestly made him feel sick, but he wasn't able to clear the lump out of his throat before she started speaking again.

"I tried to fight back, but I couldn't wake up enough to be very effective. Luckily, Leo came back before Fritz was able to get too far, but as he was being dragged away, Fritz's claws extended and dragged across my side. I was so tired that I didn't even bother getting out of bed; Leo stitched me up while I was sleeping. He still says that it's the most ridiculous thing I've ever convinced him to do." Jo purposefully made her voice lighter as she finished speaking, hoping that Sherlock would understand that she didn't really want to discuss the matter any further.

"And you told me that chasing that cab was the most ridiculous thing you'd ever done." Sherlock felt odd joking after such a sobering story, but he happily took the opportunity Jo offered to change the subject.

"It was," she answered, her serious expression cracking into a smile. "We out-ran a moving vehicle on foot, traumatized some poor tourist, and then ran home. It was patently ridiculous."

He returned her smile. "That it was. 'Welcome to London' and all that."

"You know," she said, her countenance softening even further, "that was the moment I knew that I wanted to keep you."

"Really? Why?" He asked, his heart rate speeding up inexplicably.

She shrugged, her gaze briefly flicking away before focusing on her friend again. "Before that you were just an arrogant, brilliant prick who somehow knew everything about me and left me stranded in strange places. But that was when I knew that chasing after you was going to be fun."

"Well, I'm glad," he answered, his heart still pounding.

She grinned. "Me too." After a moment of silence she asked, "So, how about you? When did you realize that you wanted to keep me around for a while?"

He cleared his throat and focused on some neutral point over her left shoulder. "It was actually when you knew that I was a Lycan. There aren't very many humans that can do that, and I knew that you definitely weren't going to be boring."

"And here I thought that it was the whole murder thing that got your attention," she answered, smirking even as she shifted her gaze away.

He rolled his eyes. "Well, that certainly was attention grabbing. But it wasn't murder — more justifiable violence."

"Whatever you say," she said, snorting. They fell silent and Sherlock's eyes inevitably drifted down to the bite marks on her hip. After a moment she caught him looking and instinctively covered the scar with her hand.

The doctor sighed, deliberately averting her eyes. "That's the only scar I'm ashamed of." Sherlock hummed, not really knowing what else to say. When Jo didn't show any sign of continuing the conversation, Sherlock decided that it would probably be best to drop the subject for the time being.

Jo shook her head to clear it, coughing lightly. "Anyway, did you put those tennis balls in my bag?"

"Yes I did." Her friend grinned. "I thought we could play fetch."

She rolled her eyes, laughing. "You are a ridiculous man, Sherlock Holmes. Absolutely ridiculous."

"Does this mean we can't play fetch?" He asked innocently, making her laugh even more. Instead of answering him, Jo reached into her bag and pulled out one of the balls, tossing it to him. He weighed it for a moment before standing up and throwing it out into the lake. Jo laughed before chasing after it.

* * *

**A/N:**

Hey everybody, thanks for reading. I know that updates have been pretty slow in coming, but I'm on summer break now so it should be a bit quicker.

Several of you have contacted me with questions about a few of the terms I use but don't really explain. I am more than happy to answer these questions, but I just wanted to let you guys know that I'm experimenting with a particular style and that I will eventually be explaining everything within the story itself. I am, however, willing to make and post a glossary of terms if people want. Just let me know if that's something that you guys would be interested in.

Thanks again for reading.


	15. Chapter 15

**A/N:**

I'm sorry this chapter was so short, and so mushy - it was supposed to be funny I swear, but I suppose Sherlock and Jo had other ideas.

In other news, I posted the glossary of terms a few days ago; I hope it's helpful. Let me know if there's anything that I've missed or is still unclear.

As always, thank you so much for reading, I hope you like it, and I'd love to hear from you.

* * *

It was the day leading up to the last night of his Change and even Sherlock had to admit that camping had been a good idea. He and Jo had spent a lot of time at the lake — although Jo definitely enjoyed swimming more than he did. Jo continued to prove that she was quite adept at outdoor cooking: even if she did stage a brief strike in order to convince Sherlock to do his share of the washing up. He had finished his first three books and was halfway through the Russian translation, which ended up being a bit more difficult that he had originally anticipated. The last night they were there, he decided to make dinner himself — Sherlock insisted that it was because he wanted to give her a break, but Jo was fairly sure that he just wanted an excuse to stop translating Russian for a few hours.

Considering the fact that every single time Sherlock had tried to cook in the flat he had set something on fire, Jo was understandably skeptical, but once Sherlock decided that he was going to do something it was almost impossible to get him to change his mind, so she just sat in her chair and prepared herself to step in when things inevitably took a turn for the disastrous. They were only five minutes into the exercise when she realized that she couldn't just sit there and watch him manufacture a disaster and decided to go for a walk. She had only been gone for fifteen minutes when she realized that she would rather be there to assist in the containment effort, rather than return to the charred remains of their campsite.

When she got back to their site, there was no sign of Sherlock — something which never failed to make her heart beat faster. She was still looking for any indication of where her flatmate might have gone when she heard a pained cry from the tent. Bursting inside, she found Sherlock kneeling in front of her bag, one hand bloody and clutched to his chest and the other impossibly tangled in the silver chain she kept in her bag. She quickly dropped down next to him and began to unravel the knots that were burning into his skin.

"I can't leave you alone for fifteen minutes without you getting into my things and hurting yourself, can I?" She murmured, trying to distract him while she worked.

He rolled his eyes. "I was just looking for a plaster; you're the one who booby trapped your bag."

"I didn't booby trap anything; that chain was safely put away in its case," she answered with a sigh. "And what were you doing looking in my bag for a plaster. I told you that my med kit was in the car." She freed his hand and pulled up to his feet. "Alright. Let's go and get my kit, and I'll get you fixed up." Sherlock quietly followed her out into the open and sat at their table as Jo retrieved her med kit.

Jo started by cleaning the three inch cut on Sherlock's left palm and then wrapping a bandage around his hand, knowing that if she just used a plaster, he wouldn't be able to keep it covered and would probably develop an infection. Next she moved on to the silver burns on his other hand, carefully rubbing cream into the injury in order to soothe the pain. When she was finished, she packed up her kit and then took over making the dinner that Sherlock had abandoned; the detective just sat quietly and watched, more than a little embarrassed by the commotion he had caused by just trying to make dinner.

"Why do you have a silver chain with you, anyway?" Sherlock asked a few minutes later, awkwardly clearing his throat.

She shrugged. "I usually have it with me. It's always been vital to my work, so I don't see the benefit of going anywhere without it; kind of like that magnifying glass of yours. And besides, I'm spending this Moon Cycle sitting by myself in the middle of no where — it's nice to have some form of self-defense."

"You weren't by yourself," he protested, unsure of whether he should be offended or not. "I'm here."

Jo smiled at him, her eyes crinkling fondly. "I know, but it's not like you stayed around the campsite. You could have been miles away and not even known that anything had gone wrong until you came back in the morning."

"I haven't just been leaving you here by yourself." He was definitely starting to work up to being offended now. "I come back to check on you once every hour, and I never go far enough that I couldn't hear you yell for help if you needed it."

Now she was beaming at him. "Really? I never knew. You must be much sneakier than I've given you credit for."

"Does that bother you?" He asked, wondering whether or not that was supposed to be a compliment. "That I can sneak up on you even when you're paying attention."

She gave a breathy giggle. "Sherlock, I've learned that at any given moment, I'm most likely underestimating you in one way or another; you are constantly exceeding my expectations, and it's brilliant. Why on earth would it start bothering me now?"

Sherlock bit back a grin, warmth spreading through him at the praise. "Jo, you expect more from me than anyone else I know; how can I possibly exceed your expectations?"

Jo finally stopped what she was working on and put all of her attention on her friend, her expression softening into a sad fondness. "The fact that no one else expects as much from you as I do is a sad comment on what people think you're capable of."

"What exactly do you think I'm capable of?" He asked, more than a little nervous that he was going to end up disappointing his friend.

She sighed, shrugging again. "Honestly, I just expect you to be a decent man. A very brilliant man, but a decent one none the less."

"That must be very disappointing for you," he replied quietly. "There's not a single person I've ever met who would call me decent."

She shook her head. "Well people are idiots. You are most definitely a decent man — more than decent, in fact. You just forget it sometimes."

"I've never met anyone with so much faith in me," he said, unable to keep the awe from his voice.

"Yes, well," she said awkwardly, coughing to try and cover up the shakiness in her voice. "Don't think that that faith extends to leaving you alone and in charge of cooking a meal ever again."

Sherlock smirked, taking the offered change in conversation. "So I won't be cooking Christmas dinner then?"

"No, definitely not," she answered, shuddering. "I think I'd rather go back to Afghanistan than have you cook a whole Christmas dinner by yourself and unsupervised."

The detective's good mood began to fade. "I have the feeling that there are a lot of things that you'd rather go back to Afghanistan than do."

The doctor's expression turned serious, obviously having caught on to Sherlock's change in mood. "There's not nearly as many as there used to be." Sherlock looked up at her consideringly for a few moments, trying to asses whether or not she was being honest, before breaking into a genuine, if hesitant, smile. Jo returned the smile much less hesitantly before going back to her work.

That night Sherlock stayed in the campsite, the wounds on his front paws making it too uncomfortable for him to get very far. Jo had spread out a towel for him so that he wouldn't have to lay in the dirt, but he was still restless and unbelievably bored. Normally, Jo would put on some ridiculous film, James Bond more often than not, that Sherlock would never admit to liking and they would sit on the sofa together, Sherlock's head in her lap as she brushed the inevitable tangles out of his fur. But there were no such distractions this time, and now that he couldn't even explore the surrounding area, the mandatory downtime left him feeling irritable and isolated. Deciding that he shouldn't be forced to suffer alone, he levied a steady assault of pointed sighs interspersed by occasional groans. Jo held out until ten before heaving a sigh of her own and pushing herself out of her chair.

"Alright that's it, I'm going to bed," she said, looking down at her friend. "You can join me if you want, but I'm warning you — if you pull any more of this sighing and moaning crap I'll kick you out of the tent." Sherlock just blinked up at her, his pale eyes conveying just how convincing her threats were. When he didn't show any signs of getting up to go with her, she sighed and shrugged to herself.

She was just on the edge of sleep when she heard Sherlock snuffling and pawing at the tent flap. She had purposefully left the door open enough that he could get in on his own, but it wasn't too surprising that he was going to make her get up and open it for him. After the first night, they had left their beds pushed together, so Jo had to crawl over her friend once she had zipped the tent shut again. She laid back down and closed her eyes, letting Sherlock press even tighter against her side. She had definitely missed not having to sleep alone, and the warm body pressed against her was more than comforting enough to send her quickly back to sleep. She had just drifted off when Sherlock stuck his cold nose in her ear, effectively waking her up again.

Jo groaned and rolled over to face him. "Was that really necessary?" When Sherlock didn't even blink in response she sighed. "You know what Holmes? You're a dirty liar."

Sherlock made a questioning sound.

"When we first met, you promised me that you would occasionally stop speaking for days. Well you've yet to shut up and I'm beginning to feel a bit disgruntled by this."

He gave her a look and she rolled her eyes.

"Don't give me that. Just because you can't technically speak at the moment, doesn't mean you're not talking to me." He made a low humming sound and then they both fell silent. A few minutes later Jo cleared her throat and spoke up again, sounding so sleepy that Sherlock had to wonder if she really knew what she was saying.

"I'm glad you keep talking to me; I don't know what I'd do if you ever stopped."

Sherlock made a low grumbling sound in the back of his throat, and while Jo couldn't quite tell what he was trying to say, it sounded a bit like a promise.


	16. Chapter 16

Packing up the campsite was infinitely easier than setting it up had been — mostly because Jo was able to do most of it without requiring Sherlock's 'assistance.' The drive back to London was quiet. Sherlock was curled up in the passenger seat, working furiously on his Russian translation. He had put some classical cd in the player, and while Jo wasn't much of a classical music buff and she would much rather listen to Sherlock play, it was pleasant enough. The drove straight through, both eager to be home despite the fact that they had enjoyed their holiday thoroughly. The drive back to London was also quiet, with Sherlock curled up in the passenger seat, working furiously on his Russian translation and Jo driving. They drove straight through, both eager to be home despite the fact that they had enjoyed their holiday thoroughly.

Mrs. Hudson was happy to see them back, greeting them at the door and then following them upstairs in order to make tea. She eyed the wounds on Sherlock's hands, but she knew better than to ask about them. She stayed for about half an hour before leaving them to get settled in after their trip. Jo claimed the shower first, and by the time Sherlock was done with his, they were both ready for dinner.

"Do you want to order in or eat out? Because I've filled my cooking quota for the next month," she said as he came into the sitting room, still toweling his hair.

He tossed the towel over the back of a chair. "Angelo's then. I'll buy." Jo rolled her eyes, knowing that he had yet to pay for a meal at Angelo's the entire time she had known him.

After they finished dinner, they returned home and settled down for a quiet night in. Jo had ensconced herself on the sofa before turning on the telly to provide background noise as she caught up on the comments from both their blogs; Sherlock had let her take over the social interaction part of his shortly after she moved in. Sherlock had set himself up at the desk in the living room and was still working on the Russian translation; Jo had bought the book on a whim and was more than pleased at how effective a distraction it had turned out to be.

She looked up to check on him, making sure that he was still finding the translation process fascinating rather than tediously aggravating. He was happily engrossed in his work, one knee pulled up to his chest and his free hand played with the hem of his pajama bottoms while he scribbled notes with his right. He also had the chain from his id tags in his mouth and was running his tongue over the beads. It made him look years younger than he was, and Jo snorted a laugh at how unexpectedly adorable that was.

Sherlock looked up at her questioningly, the chain still in his mouth.

"I don't think I've ever seen you do that before," she said with a smile.

He dropped the chain immediately. "Sorry; I didn't even realize that I was doing it."

"Don't be sorry," she answered, shaking her head. "It certainly doesn't bother me; I've just never seen you do it."

He shrugged. "I haven't done it since I was a child. Mummy hated it — she said that it was uncouth — so she had my nanny come in while I was sleeping and rub acetone on it every night until I stopped."

"How old were you?" Jo asked, her voice low and quiet.

Sherlock paused, thinking back. "Thirteen, I think, when she finally resorted to the acetone, but she started trying before I went to school."

Jo hummed, not really knowing what to say to that, and they both went back to what they had been doing.

A little while later Jo put her laptop aside and turned to the news. Most of the broadcast focused on a bombing that had taken place the day before. The Peterson Foundation, a medical research facility, had been targeted, and the LEF had claimed responsibility, citing the foundation's history of dangerous, and often deadly, experiments and drug trials on live subjects. Jo watched the entire report avidly, and when it finished she flicked the set off and turned to find that Sherlock had stopped working and was watching her with as much fervor as she had been watching the television.

"What?" She asked, leaning back against the cushions.

Sherlock shook his head, frowning. "You usually don't have any tolerance for terrorists or bombers — news stories about them upset you — but you don't seem bothered by this at all."

"The Peterson Foundation has a decades long history of medical and scientific irresponsibility which has led to over one hundred serious injuries and deaths, something for which they have shown neither remorse nor a desire to change," she answered sharply. "Forgive me for not crying because they lost a bit of architecture. They'll have that building replaced within a year."

Sherlock froze, taken aback by his friend's tone.

Jo sighed, seeing the slightly stricken look on her friend's face and regretting having spoken. "Look, I've done research for most of my career, and it's a big responsibility to be a scientist while still protecting the value of life; I don't have patience or pity for people who don't realize that." When Sherlock looked a bit less concerned she smiled and stood up. "Well, I'm off to bed; I'll see you in the morning."

"Sleep well," Sherlock mumbled, still a little off kilter from this unexpected aspect of his flatmate; he was, however, comforted by the feeling of her hand brushing his shoulder as she left the room. He moved to the sofa, assuming his usual thinking pose, and concentrated on his flatmate, half listening to the sounds of her getting ready for bed. The water was still running in the bathroom when there was a knock at the front door, and Sherlock had to hurry downstairs before the banging disturbed Mrs. Hudson. He opened the door to find four gruff looking men in suits.

"Where is Josephine Watson?" The blond asked before Sherlock even had the chance to say anything. He was obviously used to being in charge, and his air of easy superiority put the detective on edge.

He folded his arms across his chest and blocked the door more fully with his body. "Who exactly are you?" In response, the blond shoved a badge in his face. It was definitely real, and it made Sherlock's blood run cold. According to his identification, the blond was Agent Lucas Barrs from the National Oversight Agency, the department of government that focused on crimes specifically involving Lycans.

Sherlock sighed and stepped aside, knowing that he didn't have much of a choice. "She's upstairs in our flat." He turned and led the way upstairs without waiting for a response.

"Well, where is she?" Barrs demanded once they reached the sitting room.

He sighed and turned to yell up the stairs. "Jo! I need you to come downstairs!" Some of his distress must have bled into his voice because Jo didn't hesitate for a moment before hurrying downstairs. She had been in the middle of changing and she was only wearing a pair of sleep shorts and her bra; she stopped short and gave her flatmate a withering look.

"For further reference," she said, still half-glaring at her friend, "you should tell me when you need me downstairs because people are here to see me and not because you need urgent medical attention; that way I can actually put on clothes." She then turned to the agents and smiled. "Do you mind if I go upstairs and get dressed? I wasn't exactly expecting visitors."

Barrs answered, his voice sharp, "Stay right where you are. I'm not giving you the chance to slip out the window. I'm not letting you out of my sight, Watson."

She rolled her eyes. "Come on Luke, all I want to do is put a shirt on; I'm too old to be jumping out of windows willy nilly. You and your friends can come up and watch if you want." When he didn't show any sign of acquiescing she sighed. "Fine; whatever. What exactly do you want from me? Because if this is just your twisted idea of a social call, then you can go to hell because I'm too tired to put up with your shit."

He smirked. "Josephine Watson, I'm here to arrest you for yesterday's bombing of the Person Foundation."

"That's ridiculous," Sherlock interjected, sounding desperate. "There's no way she could have done it."

"We've been on holiday for Christ's sake! I've been in Devon for the past two weeks," she said, her voice more shrill than Sherlock had ever heard it. "What possible proof could you have?"

"You show up in London after ten years and within a year a medical research facility is targeted during the Moon Cycle; how much more proof than I need?" He sneered, looming purposefully over the doctor.

Jo glared up at him. "That will never hold up in court and you know it. I have an alibi. Sherlock and I haven't spent more than half an hour apart in the last week."

Barrs snorted. "I wouldn't call the word of the dog you're fucking an airtight alibi. Now, are you going to come quietly, or is this going to be difficult?"

She sighed, pressing her fingers into her eyes. "This is complete and utter bullshit, and you know it. But I'm not going to cause any problems; let's go."

Sherlock stepped forward before anyone else had the chance to move. "Hold on. You need to have something to wear." He slipped his robe off so he could wrap it around his friend's shoulders and then tied the sash around her waist for her.

She smiled and reached up to touch his cheek. "Don't worry; it's going to be fine. But I need you to call Katherine Morris, her number's in my phone. She's a lawyer and when you tell her what's happened, she'll take care of it. I'll be home before you know it." Sherlock nodded, trying to force a smile, and then Barrs inserted himself between them. He wrenched her arms behind her back and shut the handcuffs tightly around her wrists. He grabbed her by the bicep and began leading her out of the room, reciting her rights. He pulled her so hard at one point that she stumbled, causing a growl that Sherlock couldn't stifle to escape his throat.

Katherine wasn't able to get in to see Jo until six the next morning. She knew that her client had not said a single word since her arrest, and that although she had officially gone through booking, she was still in one of the interrogation rooms at the NOA London headquarters. She opened the door to the tiny room and finally saw Jo. She was sitting with impossible stillness, her head bowed and she didn't even look up when the door opened, her dirty blond hair hiding her face; one hand was handcuffed to the table in front of her and the other was resting in her lap; she was dwarfed by a blue silk bathrobe that was several sizes too big for her.

"Hey Jo," she said, surprised that a bundle of nerves had settled in her stomach. "Long time no see."

Jo looked up, breaking out into a smile. "Kat. I can't tell you how good it is to see you."

"I wish it was under better circumstances," the lawyer answered. "You shouldn't wait until Barrs shows up again to call me."

She shrugged sheepishly. "I didn't want to get you into trouble. Considering my history, if we started spending time together again, it would bring some unwanted attention to you."

"That's crap, Jo," Kat said, shaking her head. "If you want to make a clean break and stay away to keep yourself out of trouble, then fine; you don't owe me or anyone else anything. But don't send yourself into exile for our sake."

She smiled. "Alright; I'll remember that."

"Good," her friend answered, taking her seat and sliding one of the cups she carried across the table. "Cream and sugar; right?" Jo nodded, thanking her, and Kat continued. "Alright, let's get down to business. Everyone knows that you didn't do this; even Barrs isn't stupid enough to really think you did. But that doesn't mean that he's not going to push it through as long as he can. They're not going to let you out on bail, and the court case could last for months. That's unacceptable; I've talked to all of the relevant people, and they're willing to step in and confess rather than put you through that."

She shook her head and leaned across the table. "No, they can't do that! It's not worth it!"

"Of course it is," she answered sharply. "You'd do the same for any of us; in fact, you have done it for us. What makes you think that there's a single one of us who wouldn't do the same for you in a heartbeat if you asked?"

"But I didn't ask for this!" Jo insisted, her voice breaking with exhaustion and desperation. "I wouldn't have done what I did if I wanted anyone to throw their lives away for me."

The lawyer shook her head. "Jo, this isn't up for discussion. We refuse to sit back and let you take yet another hit for us; you've given up so much already. Let us at least start to pay you back for everything you've done. We owe you, Jo, and nothing you say is going to change that."

"Fine," she sighed, recognizing a losing battle when she saw one. "But can you give me some time to see if I can get out of this myself? Just give me a chance."

Kat hesitated, quickly making some calculations before answering. "Two days; you can have two days, and then we're stepping in. I don't see how you're going to manage it, but if there's anything I can do to help, just let me know."

Jo breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank you, and there is one thing you can do; I need you to get my flatmate, Sherlock Holmes, in to see me. If anyone can do this, it's him."

"Alright," she said with a nod. "I'll bring him in this afternoon. You'll be up in front of a judge in two hours, where you'll be denied bail, and then you'll be transferred to a high security detention facility. Now, you must be getting hungry, so I'm going to go and see about getting you some breakfast. I'll be back shortly." Jo thanked her again and caught her hand to give it a brief squeeze as she walked past.

Sherlock had always disliked prisons. They were unsanitary places where posh men with pretty hair who know to much and can't keep their mouths shut to save their lives never faired well. They usually made him twitchy, but the thought of Jo being trapped inside of one made his skin crawl. He had wanted to be allowed in a room alone with her so that he could see that she was okay for himself, but Ms. Morris assured him that that was absolutely impossible, so he had to content with himself a visual confirmation of her health from the other side of a Plexiglas window.

He was there before Jo was, and it took every ounce of self-control that he had to sit still, the drumming of his fingers on the counter-top in front of him the only sign of his agitation. When Jo finally arrived Sherlock focused all of his attention on making sure that she was okay. She was wearing a shapeless orange jumpsuit and her hair had been pulled back into a bun; it was obvious that she hadn't slept yet and she looked absolutely exhausted, but other than that she seemed to be fine.

Jo didn't even bother to try faking a smile as she picked up the phone. "Hey Sherlock, I've got a case for you. I promise that it'll be worth your time."

"Jo, you don't have to convince me to take your case," he said breathlessly. "You don't even have to ask. I've already started looking for…"

She shook her head, cutting him off. "Just hear me out." When her friend nodded she continued. "I need you to prove that I didn't do it, but I need you to do so without revealing who actually did. And you only have forty-eight hours."

"Why? I don't understand," he said, tightening his grip on the receiver. "Of course I want to help you, but I can't do what I do if I don't have a solid place to start from. Tell me what's going on. I can't help you if you're keeping secrets."

She closed her eyes and swallowed thickly. "I know, I know, and I'm sorry. I promise you that I will explain everything — answer any questions you have — but I can't do it here while people are listening. I just need you to trust me for a few more days — just a couple more. I promise you that I had nothing to do with this; use that as your solid foundation, please." Her voice cracked on the last word and Sherlock felt something inside of him break as well.

"Alright; alright, whatever you need." He nodded. "Since I'm not allowed to find who did do it, do you have any suggestions about where I should start proving that you didn't?"

She bit her lip, thinking. "The explosives themselves will be untraceable, so they won't be of much use. And since figuring out who actually did it won't be very helpful, you should probably focus on me. Planning an operation the size of the Peterson bombing is a very intense process, and even if I had started the day I got back from Afghanistan, I would have barely had enough time to put it all together, and that's not even considering all the time I spent in surgeries and rehab and physical therapy. If you can prove that I logistically couldn't have managed it; that should be enough for Kat to show that prosecution would not only be a complete waste of time and money, but that it would also be an embarrassment to the NOA. Start by checking my bank statements, you should know all of the passwords by now."

"I think I'll be able to figure them out," he said, the corner of his mouth twitching in an almost smile. "But when this is over, we really need to have that discussion about what you call information security." Jo breathed out a chuckle at her friend's familiar disdain for her passwords, but she didn't say anything and silence descended.

Sherlock cleared his throat almost a full minute later. "Jo, are you alright?"

"Hm?" She looked surprised at the question, but recovered quickly. "Yeah, I'm fine. I'd be better if I were home, of course, but I'm doing alright." When he still didn't look convinced, she forced a smile and leaned forward a bit. "Sherlock, it's all going to be okay. I promise."

He shook his head, a laugh choking in his throat. "I'm pretty sure that I'm the one who's supposed to be comforting you in this situation, not the other way around."

"Yes, well, I'm not very good at being comforted," she said, shrugging. "And besides, if you told me to get some rest or eat to keep my strength up, I think I might pass out."

He finally smiled. "Well, I'll refrain from doing so then. But don't worry, you can count on me."

"I know I can," she answered, smiling back at him. "But we're almost out of time here, so it's probably best if we say good bye now. Call Katherine if you need anything else."

Sherlock nodded, his throat tightening painfully. "Of course. I'll see you later then."

"See you," Jo replied, her smile obviously forced now. Sherlock hesitated for just a moment before getting up and walking away. It took everything he had not to look back at his friend, but he told himself that if Jo could be as strong as ever, then the least he could do was hold himself together while she was watching.


	17. Chapter 17

**A/N: Sorry that it's been so long since my last update; I did camp nanowrimo last month and so this was put on pause. Updates should be coming pretty regularly now.**

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As much as Jo was able to reassure Katherine and Sherlock that everything was going to be okay, when it was just her, she wasn't nearly as confident. She did her best to get some sleep, but she wasn't able to manage more than a few hours at a time. And so she spent hours lying awake on her cot, thinking about everything that she was doing her best not to think about. She had the utmost faith in Sherlock's abilities, but even if he proved her innocence on these charges, she had promised to tell him everything else, which meant that she could still lose everything. And that was assuming that whatever evidence Sherlock managed to find was accepted, which was no guarantee when it came to Barrs. She found herself counting down the minutes until the deadline Kat had given her was up; she couldn't help but wonder from what direction her salvation would come.

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This was, by far, the most stressful case of Sherlock's career. Normally he would have reveled in the challenge that the case produced, but it was far less exciting when Jo was the one sitting behind bars. The time limit she had given him was fast approaching, making things both more stressful and more confusing. He had no idea why Jo had restricted him the way that she had, but he was willing to trust that whatever reasons she had were justifiable. He was in the sitting room, sifting through all of the evidence that he had spread out over every available flat surface, when Mycroft came in, uninvited and unannounced.

Sherlock didn't even look up, hoping that, for once, his brother would go away if he wasn't acknowledged.

"Isn't the silent treatment a bit juvenile even for you?" Mycroft asked, sounding unbearably condescending.

The detective grit his teeth together and barely avoided rolling his eyes. "I'm not giving you the silent treatment; I'm working. I'm rather short on time, so if you could just get to the point, that would be much appreciated."

"Ah yes, your flatmate's case," he said, taking a seat in the leather chair. "I thought that you didn't like cases that had a mystery on both ends."

He purposefully loosened his jaw for fear of cracking a tooth. "This case doesn't have a mystery on both ends. I know that Jo didn't do it: the mystery is proving it."

"And you're not at all curious about why the NOA would assume Dr. Watson to be a suspect in the first LEF attack to occur since her return from Afghanistan?" He asked, sounding as smug as he usually did after winning an argument."

The detective shook his head, wishing with everything he had that he could avoid this conversation. "Jo will tell me when she gets home."

"Are you sure about that?" He pressed, sounding obviously skeptical.

He sighed, clenching his hands into fists. "She promised that she would, and I trust her."

"You don't trust anyone." Mycroft pointed out. "But you do trust the facts, and I have them. I can tell you exactly what the NOA wants with your Doctor Watson; all you have to do is ask."

Sherlock hesitated before shaking himself. "I'll wait for Jo to tell me herself; I trust her."

"Suit yourself," he replied, standing up and preparing to leave. "But remember, this is a standing offer. If you ever want to find out who your flatmate really is, the information will always be available to you."

He clenched his jaw again. He closed hes eyes and breathed in deeply through his nose as he listened to Mycroft walk away, hating how his brother always knew which buttons to push. After a few moments he was able to push past his anger and get back to work.

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Katherine's deadline was almost past when Jo was told that she had a visitor. Her heart was pounding as she was lead out of her cell, and she wasn't sure whether she should be relieved or not to see Kat sitting on the other side of the Plexiglas instead of Sherlock. She sat down and picked up the telephone receiver, forcing herself not to fidget.

"Jo, how are you?" Kat asked, looking genuinely concerned.

Jo shrugged. "I'm as well as can be expected. Do you have any news for me?"

"That Sherlock of yours really is something else," she said, cracking a smile. "He showed up at my door at half three this morning with all the evidence I need to prove your innocence. I've already spoken to the prosecutor, and he's agreed to drop all charges. You'll be home before dinner."

She grinned, feeling a bit breathless. "That's fantastic. I mean, wow, I didn't really expect that I'd ever really get to go home."

"Do you really have so little faith in your friends?" She asked, looking hurt and trying to hide it.

"I really have that little faith in the NOA," she answered dryly. "I always figured that if Barrs ever got me in a place like this, the he wouldn't let me go for anything less than a direct order from the queen herself."

Kat laughed, shaking her head. "I definitely see your point on that one. It's a good thing that Sherlock's evidence was so indisputable not even Barrs could argue with him. He sure is very thorough."

"That's definitely one word for it," she said, smirking. "Of course, most people would use a few different words to describe him."

She laughed. "Well, you've always had a soft spot for the difficult ones Jo Watson. You're lucky to have him."

"Yeah, I am," she answered with a fond, faraway smile. "Luckier than I ever thought I'd be."

Kat grinned knowingly. "Yeah, well, you better invite me to the bonding ceremony."

"It's not like that. We're just friends," she said, rolling her eyes and sounding exasperated. "Now stop fishing for gossip and go do your job. I'm ready to get out of here; orange really isn't my color." She winked adn hung up her receiver, calling for a guard."

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As promised, Jo made it back to Baker Street before dinner. She hadn't bothered to call Sherlock when she was released; instead taking a cab by herself, ignoring the driver's questioning looks at the fact that she was only wearing a too-big blue bathrobe. When she walked into the flat the first thing she saw was Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson frantically trying to clear the sea of papers out of the sitting room. They froze when they heard her come in, looking up at her with a pair of inexplicably guilty expressions.

Mrs. Hudson recovered, smiling and hurrying over to embrace her tenant. "Jo! It's so good to have you home dear. We were worried sick about you."

"You should have called."Sherlock added, sounding oddly nervous. "I would have come and brought you some proper clothes, at least."

Jo shrugged. "I didn't really think about it; I was just focused on getting the hell out of there." She paused but continued talking before either of the others had the chance to say anything. "I'm going to go and take the hottest shower you can imagine. I haven't felt even remotely clean in days."

Mrs. Hudson kissed her cheek. "You do that, love, and I'll go get your super." Jo thanked her and then went upstairs, doing her best to ignore the fact that she was too afraid to look directly at her flatmate.

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When Jo finally came back downstairs, freshly showered and dressed in blessedly clean clothes, Mrs. Hudson was no where to be seen. There was, however, a full dinner on the kitchen table and Sherlock standing nervously in the kitchen, clutching a bottle of wine as if his life depended on it. They stared at each other for a moment, neither of them knowing what to say, before Jo went with her instincts. She gently pulled the bottle out of her flatmate's hands and set it on the table; then, without giving herself time to second guess what she was about to do, she wrapped her arms tightly around Sherlock's waist, leaning her head against his shoulder and closing her eyes. He hesitated, flailing just a little bit, before hugging her back, burying his face in her hair and breathing deeply. It felt like he was actually scenting her, and Jo squeezed her eyes closed even tighter so that she could pretend that that was what he was really doing.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, not showing any sign of letting him go. "I know that this isn't something you do; just give me another moment and I'll let go."

"It's fine," he answered, his voice just as quiet and rough as hers. "We can do this for as long as you like." Jo nodded but didn't relax even when he tightened his grip on her.


End file.
